


Triumph of the Early Bird

by MarianneGreenleaf



Series: Building a History Together: Marriage and Children [10]
Category: Music Man - All Media Types, The Music Man (1962), The Music Man - All Media Types, The Music Man - Willson
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Big city dreams/escaping the farm, Boys band performance, Charming Victorian, Clandestine canoodling, Confessions, Des Moines, Earn Your Happy Ending, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Falling In Love, Hotel Sex, Inspired by Music, Intimacy, Jealousy, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, Madison Park Pavilion, Morning After, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Morning Sickness, Music room rendezvous, Nosy scheming reporters ought to mind their own business, Not Actually Unrequited Love, OC romance, Original Character-centric, Picnic, Pillow Talk, Psychological Trauma, Resolved Sexual Tension, Spooning, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Lust, smexytimes, trouble with a capital t, vaudeville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:24:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 86,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarianneGreenleaf/pseuds/MarianneGreenleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fred Gallup returns to River City to cover the Easter Parade. Although Harold Hill is now happily married, the reporter is even more cynical and predatory than he was before, making him a far more dangerous adversary for the music professor and librarian to contend with...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh, I Could Write a Sonnet

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features one of my OCs, Fred Gallup, reporter for the Des Moines Register and Leader. This will be a two-chapter fic – the first chapter has plenty of Harold and Marian in it, but the second chapter takes place entirely outside of River City. If OCs are not your cup of tea, turn back now! If you’re still interested, I’d recommend reading “Everyone Loves a Parade” first, if you haven’t already – that is the fic in which Fred first made his appearance.
> 
> Also, I couldn’t resist incorporating the lyrics for “Easter Parade” into this fic, so this chapter makes anachronistic reference to Irving Berlin’s 1933 song. Since canon has also dabbled in anachronism (most notably, Harold’s reference in “Trouble” to “Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang,” which wasn’t actually published until 1919), I figure I am merely following established precedent!

Easter was fast approaching, and for the first time in years or perhaps even decades, River City wasn’t just looking forward to the holiday for its own sake. As Professor Harold Hill proudly informed Mayor Shinn following the boys’ band’s stirring demonstration the previous August, he would be pleased as punch to lead another parade on Easter Sunday. And knowing that the _Des Moines Register and Leader_ would once again send Fred Gallup to cover the festivities – that is, if the big-city paper deemed it worthwhile to run a story on a second River City parade – the music professor had spent the last six months diligently and patiently drilling his boys in preparation for another stunning spectacle. This time around, Harold was determined that the sly-eyed, mealy-mouthed reporter would see his boys marching in a flawless glide step as they promenaded down Main Street!

Although the extra rehearsals certainly paid off and the boys now had proper marching formation down pat, the music professor did not rest easy on March twenty-second – the eve of the big event. Instead, he found himself in just as much of a restless flurry of activity as he’d been the night before the band’s August debut. There were so many crucial little details to keep in mind, and Harold was determined not to overlook a single one. While he dutifully locked up the emporium at five o’clock and came home for dinner at his wife’s behest, he bolted down his food and retired to the music room, spending the next several hours rifling through scores, banners, instruments and other bric-a-brac as he once again reviewed everything that needed to happen for the parade to go off without a hitch.

It wasn’t often that Harold wished to delay the fruition of a carefully planned scheme, but when Marian brought him a cup of tea – and with it, a warm kiss on his flushed cheek – the music professor found himself confessing to his wife that he wished Easter Sunday wasn’t slated to fall so gosh darn early this year.

Although the strait-laced librarian raised an eyebrow at this mild but unusual oath on his part – he’d caught himself just in time, too, as “gosh darn” weren’t precisely the words he’d been thinking – she gave him another reassuring kiss and went straight to the heart of what was nagging him. “Mr. Gallup can’t possibly pose as much of a threat as he did before. No matter what he thinks of tomorrow’s performance, your band is already well-established and a proven success.”

For a moment, Harold simply looked at his wife. Marian was regarding at him with that beaming smile, the one that indicated she believed not just every grandiose word he ever said, but that he would make good on his avowals. Lots of people had looked at him that way before, men and women, but it only ever struck a chord in his heart when _she_ did it. The librarian had always been a gorgeous woman, but there was something particularly captivating about her when she wore that affectionate and trusting expression. Not only did that sweet look of hers make him want to keep his pie-in-the-sky promises, it made him believe he actually could.

Of course, the music professor wasn’t the only fellow who’d been swayed by the lovely librarian. Nor was he the only fellow charming and persistent enough to try to win her over despite the seemingly insurmountable obstacles both she and circumstance presented.

Frowning at the reminder of Mr. Gallup’s unabashed flirtations – he had purposely neglected to inform the reporter of their marriage, lest the man find an excuse not to show up and thereby ruin the emporium’s chances for additional publicity – Harold turned his gaze back to the score he was holding. “Mr. Gallup _is_ coming. I got a telegram from the man on Friday afternoon,” he confirmed in a voice that was level but still rather dark for him. To lighten the mood, the music professor forced a laugh, and was gratified to hear that his chuckle contained far more ease than he felt. “He might not pose as much of a threat to our operations, but only a fool would relax around a reporter.”

Removing the sheaf of papers from Harold’s hands and placing them on a nearby end table, Marian sat down on her husband’s lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I wasn’t finished, darling,” she softly remonstrated. “I also wanted to remind you that any designs Mr. Gallup may still have on a certain librarian will be rendered futile once and for all, when he sees that both her heart _and_ hand are definitively spoken for.”

As she brought her hand forward to caress Harold’s cheek, he caught sight of her wedding band glinting in the light. When he turned his head to kiss the golden ring and then the pretty fingers of that slim, spoken-for hand, Marian nestled closer and, with a pleased sigh, buried her head in the crook of his shoulder.

Normally, this tacit invitation would have been the music professor’s cue to begin a delicious round of lovemaking that would happily fill the rest of the evening. However, when Harold moved his mouth to gently nip at his wife’s exposed neck, he caught sight of his jaunty, plumed bandleader’s cap resting on the piano bench, and his lips stilled as he suddenly remembered something vitally important he had forgotten to confirm earlier. “Marian, was your mother able to get the silver polish stain out of the sleeve of my jacket? And were you able to pick up the jacket from her this afternoon?”

Marian laughed and nestled even closer to him. “Yes, Harold. Your jacket is laundered, pressed, and hanging in your armoire in the bedroom. I told you this during dinner, remember?”

“Ah, so you did,” he concurred, though he honestly couldn’t recall. He began to kiss her neck again, but then another thought occurred to him. “Are my silver trumpet cufflinks ready for tomorrow, as well? You said they needed to be polished first… ”

Letting out a good-natured sigh, Marian lifted her head to look at him. “ _Yes_ , Harold. I told you that, too. Were you even listening to a word I said while we ate, or was your head completely in the clouds?”

Harold grinned sheepishly. “I suppose it was. Did I miss anything else you had to tell me?”

“You were in and out of the kitchen so fast I didn’t have time to say much more than that,” Marian reproachfully teased him.

Now that matters were completely settled, the music professor was eager to resume their prelude from where he had left off, but before he could so much as bend toward his wife’s delectable throat, she unwound her arms from his neck and rose from his lap.

“While _you_ may be planning to stay awake all night worrying about band business, _I’m_ planning to retire shortly,” she said with a yawn. “But first, a bedtime snack is in order.”

Now it was Harold’s turn to tease – if nothing else, he had noticed his wife’s newfound prodigious appetite. “For someone who’s gotten so picky about what kinds of foods she finds appealing, you’ve certainly seemed a lot hungrier, lately!”

Her demeanor unruffled, Marian shrugged and said, “We’ve been busier than ever with the boys’ band and at the library these past few months, so I suppose my body requires the extra nourishment.”

Although a glance at the cuckoo clock on the wall revealed it was only seven fifteen, Harold was content to leave it unsaid that in recent weeks, she’d also taken to going to bed quite early. He certainly had his suspicions as to the reason for these marked changes in his wife’s habits, but as this was unfamiliar territory for him, he decided it was best to play oblivious for the time being, and wait for her to come to him with any potential news that might be looming on the horizon. After all, the librarian was a clever woman and would surely put two and two together soon enough, if indeed that was the case! In the meantime, Harold wasn’t about to let another opportunity for lovemaking slip through his fingers if he could help it, even though he’d botched a promising prelude only moments before…

Standing up himself, the music professor wrapped his arms around his wife and gave her his best rueful puppy-dog eyes. “Actually, I did have nicer plans than ruminating over concert details tonight. So I hope you aren’t planning to go to sleep _too_ soon after your repast.” Palming her backside, he pulled her even closer against him and said in his low, velvety voice, “Because what I had in mind will keep us both awake for the next few hours, at least, _Missus_ Hill… ”

Unsurprisingly, Marian rolled her eyes and laughingly scolded, “Be that as it may, _Mister_ Hill, we shouldn’t stay up too late. After all, River City’s renowned bandleader needs his rest, as well!” But she melted into his embrace and pressed her hips into his, all the same.

At the librarian’s unspoken but bold encouragement, Harold tightened his arms around her both fervently and possessively. “I know without a doubt that you’re fully mine, Marian,” he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. “But I’d like to go into tomorrow with a solid reminder of that. When that sneaky reporter pulls his sly tricks in order to get under my skin, I’d like to recall my wife’s loving caresses to bolster my spirits.”

Clearly, Marian thought he was using a slick line on her, because she pulled away a little and regarded him with a skeptical smile. But when their eyes met and she saw the seriousness in his gaze, her levity faded. Swallowing nervously even as he continued to look intently at his wife, Harold told her, “I’m just as uneasy about Mr. Gallup’s presence at the Easter parade as I was about his antics last August… and that’s the God’s honest truth, Marian.”

Marian, who was not only a lady from the ground up but the best wife a man could ask for, did not laugh or dismiss his apprehensions. Nor did she regard him with pity or contempt. Instead, she tenderly cupped his cheek and gave him the sweet, ardent look that always made him weak in the knees. “Harold… although Mr. Gallup will be hard-pressed to do any damage on this trip, I _did_ think it best to hide the _Indiana State Educational Journal_ again, just in case.” Closing the distance between them, she kissed him with affection, warmth and invitation.

When their lips parted, Marian continued to bathe his cheeks with soft kisses, and Harold’s eyes remained closed as he reveled in her ministrations. “Oh, Marian,” he moaned. “I love you. I love you more than anything. More than that, I _need_ you. I can’t tell you how lost I’d be without you… ” The words tumbled out hurriedly and gracelessly, reminiscent of that August night on the footbridge when he’d confessed in painstaking detail the true depth of his feelings for her. Normally, the music professor would have cringed at how effusive he was being – he’d only meant to praise her for her smart thinking – but after everything they’d been through together, he knew she’d understand him perfectly.

Marian kissed him again, harder this time. “We’re a united front now, no matter what Mr. Gallup tries to pull tomorrow,” she affirmed. Her eyes found his again, and her voice dropped to a throaty whisper. “Let’s go to bed, Harold.”

“What about your snack?” Harold asked – though he did indeed long to bring her to their bed right that minute. However, he wasn’t about to allow his possibly expecting wife to go hungry in the process of sating _his_ appetites.

Marian gently extricated herself from his embrace and gave him her sly, sideways smile. “I can always eat later.”

Taking the librarian’s hand, Harold pulled her upstairs.

XXX

Fred Gallup sighed wearily and ran his hand over his slicked-back hair as the train reached the outskirts of Des Moines and the endless cornfields began to flash by. He may have been born and bred in the tiny, unincorporated town of Charleston, Iowa, but he’d fled to the steel and concrete and busyness of Des Moines after he was forced by financial circumstance to drop out of college. Though the reporter spent a good deal of his time crisscrossing the state visiting one backwater or another in search of stories for the _Register and Leader_ , he was a city man through and through. The vast, monotonous farmlands of Iowa both bored and unnerved him.

Being a man whose living depended on observing his surroundings, Fred nevertheless found himself mechanically noting the details of the sparse panorama before him: the sun had just peeked up over the horizon, making the dew glisten on the delicate green tendrils poking up from the loamy, manure-covered earth. Some men might have found the pastoral sight captivating, but Fred was not nearly so sentimental – he was a reporter, not a poet. As the sun rose higher in the sky, he fervently wished for a skyscraper or twenty to shield the steadily increasing glare, which was fast giving him a headache.

Scowling and turning away from the window when the brightness became too much for his tired eyes to tolerate, Fred instead turned his attention to his fellow passengers. Since it was an early-morning train, he didn’t have a whole lot of company. He was presently sharing the car with a few traveling salesmen, and he knew right off the bat that neither fellow would prove a promising conversational companion. One of the salesmen was snoring loudly beneath his boater and clutching the handles of his garishly-painted valise for dear life, and the other was ensconced behind a tattered, week-old edition of the _Burlington Hawk Eye_. Sneering at the rival rag, Fred faced forward and stared at the empty seat in front of him, wondering what capricious whim made him decide to accept Harold Hill’s invitation in the first place.

There really was no reason for him to go back to River City. No decent reason, at any rate. While the reporter was mildly curious to see the progress the fledgling boys’ band had made over the past six months, he was even more interested in ascertaining the well-being of a certain, lovely librarian who’d been lingering in the back of his mind since the previous August. Marian Paroo hadn’t been an easy woman to forget, although he’d tried his damnedest. Whether that scoundrel Hill truly loved Miss Paroo or not, she’d wholly given her heart to the bombastic flim-flam man – Fred never had a chance with her, and he knew it. But perhaps now, half a year later, the infatuated-but-shrewd librarian might be tiring of Harold Hill’s bluster and empty promises, and there could very well be a chink in her armor he could work his way through…

However, first and foremost, the reporter was careful to get his boss’s blessing before setting off on this jaunt to River City. No sense in making the effort if he wasn’t going to get paid for his troubles – seeing those bouncing blonde ringlets and sweet hazel eyes again was delightful to contemplate, but it wasn’t worth putting the food on his table or the roof over his head in jeopardy! While his editor was intrigued by the idea of a follow up, he’d consented to the idea only on one condition. If Fred was aiming to write about the same boys’ band in the same Podunk town in the middle of nowhere, he’d have to come up with a new angle for his story. A whiff of scandal perhaps – nothing like whipping up a fury of self-righteous titillation to sell extra copy! At that directive, the seasoned reporter had grinned and guaranteed he would deliver on that score. Not wanting to overplay his hand, he left it unsaid that given what little he’d previously managed to dig up about “Professor” Harold Hill’s erstwhile exploits in Illinois, he didn’t even need to go back to River City to write _that_ story.

When the train finally rolled into the freight depot, Fred meticulously brushed the creases out of his olive-green suit-coat and trousers, lightly smoothed his fingers over his tawny brown locks and pencil mustache to ensure they were slicked perfectly in place, carefully placed his straw boater on his head at a rakish angle… and then bolted outside, eager to get to work. As he paused briefly to take in his surroundings, he couldn’t contain his sneer of amusement. Not a damn thing had changed since his last visit – everything was exactly the same, right down to the wizened old farmer in dusty overalls and threadbare straw hat hoeing his plot of cabbage!

The reporter tipped his hat as he passed. “Good morning, friend,” he said in a warm and courteous voice. “Nice weather we’re having today, wouldn’t you say?”

The farmer frowned and pointedly squinted at the knots of puffy cumulous clouds dotting the faraway horizon. “Looks like a storm is brewing.”

Exactly the same as last time, indeed! Repressing a laugh, Fred tipped his hat again and made his way toward Professor Harold Hill’s Music Emporium. He even started to whistle merrily as he walked along – but promptly squelched that inclination the moment he realized the tune coming out of his mouth was the jaunty but overblown _Seventy Six Trombones_. Loud, boisterous entrances were Harold Hill’s shtick; the reporter was planning to slip unseen through the doors of the emporium, in the hopes of catching the self-styled music professor and strait-laced librarian enmeshed in an interlude just as interesting and potentially scandalous as he’d spied them in the previous August.

However, the moment he entered the establishment, Harold Hill was there to greet him with a bright smile. As Fred likewise grinned in greeting, he ruefully reflected that he should have known better than to underestimate his rival – clearly, the man wasn’t going to make the same mistake of getting caught anywhere near _flagrante delicto_! As Professor Hill ushered him into the auditorium, the reporter assessed the showman’s demeanor. Harold Hill had the same larger-than-life presence, expansive mannerisms, booming voice and impeccably coiffed wave, but there was something different about him, some subtle but definitive change that Fred couldn’t quite put his finger on…

His thoughts scattered when he saw Marian Paroo, who was wearing a fetching pale-blue muslin gown trimmed with white lace. _And_ she was beaming at him. “Welcome back to River City, Mr. Gallup! We’re so happy you could join us for the Easter festivities.”

Fred eagerly took the hand she offered him and gave it the hearty kiss he would have much rather pressed against her alluring crimson lips. “I’m happy to be back, Miss Paroo,” he said with genuine warmth as he continued to clasp her hand in his. “Looking forward to seeing what the Curies of the music world have in store for us all today!”

Marian’s mouth twitched and she exchanged a brief look with Professor Hill, who, as ever, was hovering just over her shoulder. Fred expected the music professor to go berserk at his perhaps too-cordial overtures, but his grin merely broadened. “Oh – did I forget to mention?” he said with an easygoing air that the reporter knew was more affected than it seemed. “The librarian is much more than my assistant at the emporium, these days. Mr. Gallup, I’m pleased to introduce you to Marian Paroo Hill – my wife.”

Fred had known this was coming as soon as Harold Hill opened his mouth, and was already crafting his cordial felicitations, but somehow, he still wasn’t able to entirely contain his irritated chagrin. While he managed to keep his voice smooth and steady as he congratulated the couple on their nuptials, he knew his expression didn’t quite match the delight of his tone. Fred was further irked when he found himself genuinely regretting his inability to conceal his disappointment, not out of embarrassment for his own feelings, but because he perversely felt he owed it to Professor Hill to try a little harder. How was it that even after being so thoroughly bested, part of him still couldn’t help liking and downright rooting for this scoundrel?

However, now that he’d expressed the required sentiments of joy, Fred immediately cast about for an opportunity to change the subject. His eyes fell upon the tiny silver trumpets gleaming at the music professor’s wrists. “Those are intriguing cufflinks, Professor Hill. Where did you get them? I might be interested in purchasing a pair for myself!”

The music professor’s grin widened. “Why, thank you, Mr. Gallup! They were a present from Marian. She ordered them from a specialty jewelry shop in Davenport. The same place, as a matter of fact, where I ended up buying her engagement ring.”

Fred’s gaze immediately jerked to the diamond solitaire upon the librarian’s slender hand. In the light, the bauble seemed to be winking insolently at him, mirroring the triumphant glow in the music professor’s eyes. Repressing the urge to glare at both the ring and the smirking scoundrel who was quietly but unabashedly savoring his victory, Fred pulled a pad and pencil out of his pocket. Since he couldn’t seem to succeed in moving the conversation away from the librarian’s marital status, it was time to get down to business.

“So, Professor Hill, are there any new and exciting developments at the music emporium that you’d like to share with the _Register and Leader’s_ readers?”

As ever, the music professor was more than happy to bloviate about his establishment, and happily did just that for a good fifteen minutes without pausing for breath. During this monologue, Fred smiled, nodded and pretended to take copious notes while sneaking glances at the librarian out of the corners of his eyes. Sadly, Miss Marian – he refused to call her anything connected to the name _Hill_ in the privacy of his own mind – did not look at him even once. She only had eyes for her husband and, despite her demure sideways glance and vaguely detached smile (she must have heard Professor Hill’s spiel at least a hundred times before), she was as riveted to the showman as if he were the moon, the stars and the sky all rolled into one.

Since no one was presently looking at him, Fred allowed himself to scowl openly. He just could not understand what it was that Miss Marian saw in this flim-flam man’s self-assured swagger. The well-traveled reporter didn’t often come across women who were as gorgeous, intelligent and savvy as River City’s librarian. Nor did he often meet women he wanted to get to know outside of the bedroom. And now that he had finally found a gal whose company he would have enjoyed between the sheets and whose cleverness in conversation he would have relished, he had absolutely no chance of winning her over, let alone properly pursuing her!

Perhaps this was Providence’s way of paying him back for breaking Bess’s heart, all those years ago. Dear, sweet Bess, the only woman he’d ever truly loved, despite – or perhaps because – he’d never taken a tumble in the hay with her. Bess was his childhood sweetheart, and Fred would never have been so crass as to engage in that kind of trysting with her, at least not until he’d placed a wedding ring on her finger. But somehow, he’d never mustered up the gumption to get that far. While Bess was just as elegant and eloquent as Miss Marian, she had a stubborn, small-town naiveté that rankled him, as much as he tried to overlook it. After they’d graduated from high school and he’d won his musical scholarship, she promised to wait for him while he completed his degree, but even before he’d stepped foot on the University of Iowa campus, Fred knew the two of them were going in different directions in life. Indeed, they’d separated a few times during his promising but ultimately doomed college career. During these estrangements, Fred drowned his sorrows in heated but short-lived affairs – he was handsome and charming enough that he had no shortage of women willing to warm his bed. But as much as Fred relished those brief respites from his impending life of domesticity, none of those other gals could hold a candle to Bess, so he’d always smoothed things over with her in the end.

When his scholarship ran out and he could no longer afford college on his own, Bess asked him point-blank to come home to her. Not wanting to spend his life as a paltry store clerk in the middle of nowhere, Fred took a journalism job in Des Moines, and then proceeded to make several determined efforts to convince his sweetheart to join him in the city. Unsurprisingly, Bess balked at leaving Charleston, though she had just as much trouble letting him go as he did saying that final goodbye to her. So they hung on for a few more tumultuous years, trying to salvage what they could of their slowly but steadily dwindling romance. However, when the dull but decent Henry Harper eventually expressed an interest in courting her, she broke things off with Fred for good. Last the reporter heard from his mother, Bess was plump, content, and happily raising a brood of four with her paltry store clerk – and she had a fifth kid on the way.

_Speaking of children…_

After Professor Hill finally reached the end of his spiel, he invited the reporter to partake of some refreshments. Indeed, about five minutes earlier, Miss Marian had quietly retreated to the far end of the auditorium to lay out a delectable spread of bread, cheese, fruit and jam. Having skipped breakfast that morning, Fred stopped sneaking glances at the librarian and instead gazed longingly at the food. However, he couldn’t help noting that while her precious music professor continued to drone on, Miss Marian constantly nibbled from this platter, eating with refined but definite gusto. And when the two men eventually joined her in repast, Fred caught Professor Hill surreptitiously observing his rapacious wife with a knowing and giddy twinkle in his eyes. The music professor also avoided taking more than a morsel or two of food, confirming Fred’s sneaking suspicions that this platter was concocted more for Miss Marian’s consumption than as a gesture of hospitality to him. For even though the librarian’s figure was still as sleek and trim as ever, it was highly possible she was eating for more than just her own nourishment.

Although this discovery irked Fred even further, he felt resentment rather than envy. As much as the reporter wished for feminine companionship, he did not relish the idea of having a passel of children – yet another reason he wasn’t at all eager to settle down with Bess too quickly. Not that he disliked kids. On the contrary, Fred found children refreshingly perceptive and straightforward conversationalists, as they were not yet ingrained with the hypocrisy masquerading as civility that he encountered in the vast majority of adults he met. To his bemused delight, the children he knew also seemed to like him in return; he had three sisters back in Charleston who’d happily taken up the mantle of domesticity in his place, and the reporter’s nieces and nephews relished their uncle’s visits and peppered him for stories about his travels and the wider world whenever he was in town. So as far as Fred Gallup was concerned, kids were just fine and dandy… as long as they were someone else’s.

Given that the cloth he and Harold Hill were cut out of was more similar than he cared to openly admit, Fred marveled at the music professor’s barely concealed delight at his wife’s probable condition. Although the music professor clearly had a wonderful rapport with River City’s boys, he did not strike the reporter as a fellow who’d actually want to have children of his own. But then, Fred would never have predicted that Harold Hill was capable of relinquishing his bachelorhood so quickly; the reporter had expected him to put off the wedding for at least another year or two.

But it seemed the charming scoundrel had taken his advice and married the strait-laced librarian, after all. Not only that, he wasn’t even bothering to hide how besotted he was with her. While he did not go so far as to embrace her or engage in any other inappropriate physical displays of affection, Professor Hill gazed at his wife like they were the only two people in the auditorium. And in return, Miss Marian continued to look at him like he was the only man in the world worth noticing. _That_ was what was so different from last August – the two of them were an impenetrable, united front. The former fly-by-night salesman was not only a legitimate music professor, he was also a devoted husband. And in all likelihood, he would soon be a father, as well.

But that didn’t mean there was no scandal to be found in River City. Small towns were always full of unsavory secrets, and the reporter had always excelled at rooting out the unpleasant truths carefully concealed beneath the polished veneer of society. Stuffing his acrimony down his throat with the last of his bread and jam, Fred found a cheerful grin and began digging.

“Mrs. Hill, I understand that in addition to serving as second-in-command at the emporium, you’re also still employed as River City’s librarian. However do you manage to find the time for everything, while still maintaining such a radiant demeanor? You’re the picture of health and bloom!”

His tone was both complimentary and admiring, designed to elicit an appreciative laugh from Miss Marian and a scowl from Professor Hill, who would likely take his remark as a sly insinuation that the emporium’s finances were too shaky to fully support a wife – and the child she was presently carrying. However, to the reporter’s disappointment, the music professor laughed just as merrily as the librarian.

“River City couldn’t do without Marian as its librarian,” Professor Hill fondly and cheerfully affirmed. He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. “She’s indispensable, irreplaceable – and irrepressible!”

Fred’s mood soured again when Miss Marian laughed even more warmly at her husband’s flattery than his own. And she didn’t even try to pull out of the music professor’s grasp. “Oh, Harold!” she admonished indulgently, an enchanting blush suffusing her cheeks.

Though there were no signs whatsoever of indignation or alarm in either of their voices or expressions, Fred refused to take their relaxed banter at face value. There was something that seemed almost too well-coordinated about this mirthful display, and he couldn’t shake the sense of a pair of actors both subtly and skillfully performing a masque for a jaded audience. The music professor and librarian were formidable when it came to stubborn concealment of their personal vulnerabilities; perhaps Miss Marian’s continued employment was a matter of tension between them, but their prodigious sense of pride was leading them to put on a false and flawless act for his benefit.

Indeed, when the parade set off from the steps of River City High School at noon sharp, Fred observed that the boys’ uniforms were looking noticeably more tattered and threadbare than they had last August. While Professor Hill’s bandleader uniform of white pants with a red stripe up the sides, red jacket trimmed with gold buttons and ribbon, and ivory feathered cap was as grand and gaudy as ever, it was also a lot more worn and faded than it had been six months earlier.

However, the grandeur of the boys’ band itself had not dimmed one iota. In fact, their performance was vastly improved. Though they opened with their usual – and to the reporter’s mind, tiresome – anthem, _Seventy Six Trombones_ , their glide step was flawless. The musical virtuoso winning out over the cynical reporter, Fred couldn’t help giving the bandleader a genuine grin as he passed by. _Professor Hill certainly drilled them well these past six months_ , he reflected approvingly.

Once the parade reached the entrance to the Center Street rotary, Professor Hill brought everyone to a halt. This maneuver was also timed perfectly; the band had just come to the final bars of _Seventy Six Trombones_ when the music professor turned, raised his arms and motioned for silence. Fred caught sight of those silly, silver trumpet cufflinks glinting in the afternoon sunlight, but like the rest of the crowd, he was so tense with excitement that he forgot to be irritated by their presence.

After a brief pause, Professor Hill began to conduct. The horn section of the band started up again, not boisterously, but softly. Because from the direction of Madison Public Library, there came female voices raised in song:

_Never saw you dress quite so handsome – what’s more_  
 _I could hardly wait to keep our date_  
 _This lovely Easter morning_  
 _And my heart beat fast as I came through the door_  
 _For…_

Enchanted, Fred and the River City-ziens collectively turned to see Miss Marian and the baton girls, who acknowledged the riveted crowd with sweet smiles before crooning to the boys:

_In your Easter bonnet, with all the frills upon it_  
 _You’ll be the grandest fella in the Easter parade._  
 _I’ll be all in clover, and when they look us over_  
 _We’ll be the proudest couple in the Easter parade._  
 _Oh, I could write a sonnet, about your Easter bonnet_  
 _And of the boy I’m taking to the Easter Parade!_

Once they had finished their piece, Harold and the boys who were not playing instruments serenaded back:

_Oh, I could write a sonnet_  
 _About your Easter bonnet_  
 _And of the girl I’m taking to the Easter Parade!_

The kids sang with just as much unabashed gusto as they played their instruments, although it was clear to Fred that the children’s overall sense of pitch was rather shaky, and if it weren’t for the strong and steady voices of Harold and Marian Hill, the chorus would have gone hopelessly off track. Additional fine-tuning of this aspect of the program would definitely be required for future performances.

At least, that was the reporter’s verdict. Everyone else apparently thought this musical exchange was the most marvelous thing they had ever heard; the crowd cheered so loudly and enthusiastically that Professor Hill had to motion for the horn section to pause in its playing until the applause finally ceased. So even though incorporating singing at this still-early juncture had been a risky gambit, it was one that paid off extremely well. After all, few River City-ziens possessed the discerning ear of the classically trained musician, and they probably still would have eaten this presentation right up even if the kids had sounded absolutely terrible.

Once everyone had settled down again, the entire boys’ band launched into a brassier instrumental of _Easter Parade_. With beaming smiles, Miss Marian and her phalanx of baton girls marched demurely forward. Like the boys’ glide step earlier, their formation was also flawless, and the ladies made a lovely sight as they glided down the street in their matching band uniforms. As ever, the librarian was the loveliest of them all; she was wearing a fitted, ivory bandleader’s jacket with a matching skirt that flared out at the knee and swished becomingly around her calves as she strolled along. Her buttons and epaulets were gold, and the collar, cuffs of her sleeves and hem of her gown were trimmed with gold ribbon. As a finishing touch, an ivory feathered cap identical to her husband’s was perched becomingly on her honey-blonde curls. Miss Marian looked every inch the music professor’s wife and parade partner, and it was certainly not lost on Fred the sweet, significant looks those two were giving each other as she and the girls drew nearer.

Just as entranced by the display as anyone else in town, the reporter both marveled and despaired at the change in the librarian’s ensemble and demeanor. Last August, Miss Marian had worn a frilly pink-and-white organdy with a deliciously low neckline, and she hastened to join Professor Hill at the head of the parade like a teenage girl heedlessly running to meet her lover. The sight was charming to witness and had made Fred smile along with everybody else, but the impulsive and slapdash air of this display spoke volumes about the tenuousness of both their new courtship and burgeoning musical venture. Today, it was clear the librarian was much more firmly ensconced in her position. Though her sleek chignon framed her face as elegantly as ever, no banana curls bounced loosely around her shoulders as she marched forward. And though her tailored jacket and fitted skirt nicely emphasized the roundness of her curves, her gown went down to her ankles, her jacket sleeves ended at her wrists and her high collar completely covered her neck. But most tellingly, Miss Marian walked with the poise and pride of a woman who was absolutely certain of her place in the world. She had been seamlessly integrated into Professor Hill’s marvelous machinations.

When the baton girls and the boys’ band merged into unified formation and the librarian took her husband’s outstretched arm, Fred’s admiration was once again engulfed by the acute sense of resentment that had plagued him earlier that morning in the emporium. And this time, it was compounded by a bitter sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. As he witnessed the handsome and well-matched pair leading their band onward to Madison Picnic Park – the boys were once again playing _Seventy Six Trombones_ , while the girls spun their batons in a jaunty manner – the reporter realized that the angle he’d been planning to exploit for his new story had long since disappeared.

By the time the parade had reached the pavilion and concluded with a final flourish, Fred was once again scowling openly as he considered the situation. Now that the music professor and librarian had gotten their personal affairs settled and come to a solid understanding, they worked together like a well-oiled machine. Although Fred was more than willing to throw a monkey wrench into such devices in the name of pursuing the truth, he was unable to find any weak point he could penetrate. It was downright sickening, the easy rhythm the two of them had together, the way the music professor was always keenly aware of the librarian’s presence even when he wasn’t looking at her, the way the librarian subconsciously moved in concert with the music professor even when she wasn’t looking at him. Marian Paroo now belonged wholly and irrevocably to Harold Hill; she was his in both body and soul.

However, something still didn’t quite add up, and so the wheels kept turning in Fred’s mind. He had Miss Marian figured out, but what of Harold Hill? On the surface, he was a legitimate and respected bandleader, and a faithful and devoted husband to boot. And, if the reporter’s suspicions about Miss Marian’s condition were indeed correct, the man was going to be a father, as well. Whatever his past occupation, Professor Hill was now the most upright pillar of a community anyone could ever hope to meet. Still, his relationship with the librarian was sure to be a source of endless curiosity, amusement and, Fred wryly surmised, even envy.

But when the reporter asked around, under the guise of making idle conversation, the gossipy hens confirmed without a shred of malice that Harold and Marian Hill were very much in love. After this latest defeat, Fred’s scowl returned and his initial inclination was to conclude that his entire endeavor was fruitless. There was no story here. It was a wasted trip, and the reporter would not be reimbursed for his travel costs. He should never have bothered to pursue this rigmarole!

But there was one angle the reporter still hadn’t considered: How long could Harold Hill’s remarkable reformation truly last? Everything may have been roses and moonlight between the music professor and librarian at present, but what would their marriage look like next year? After all, they’d have to contend with the addition of a mewling infant, which was sure to take a lot of the bloom and sparkle out of their current, carefree little romance. As soon as children entered the picture, not many husbands retained the ability to be so tirelessly devoted to their wives – especially not former fly-by-night salesmen with the touch of the womanizer about them! Men like Harold Hill couldn’t change _that_ completely, and the stress of fatherhood might just prove to be his undoing. And even if his new leaf remained permanently turned over, it was still too early in their relationship for him to feel completely comfortable in his new existence. There had to some lingering struggle and difficulty as the newly minted music professor adjusted to the onerous and lofty demands of being a husband, father-to-be and pillar of the community.

So Fred decided to do a little more poking around to see if he could stir up any nasty hornets’ nests lurking beneath those beautifully painted shutters. If he got stung in the process, so be it – it was all for a good cause.

But first things first – it was time to get himself something to eat. The River City Events Committee had prepared a marvelous _al fresco_ Easter dinner, complete with roasted ham and all the trimmings. Not being much of a chef, the reporter relished any opportunity he got to partake of a hearty, home-cooked meal and, not wanting to miss out on this delectable treat, he was one of the first in line for the food brought out after the parade’s conclusion. Once he’d assembled a generous plate for himself, Fred then turned his attention to locating his quarry.

Unsurprisingly, the music professor and librarian had ensconced themselves in a nook of trees a little ways away from the crowds. However, unlike the last time the reporter insinuated himself into their little love nest, they greeted him with pleasant smiles that genuinely reached their eyes. _Good_ , Fred thought triumphantly. It was so much easier to get beneath people’s skin when they were at ease.

As ever, the reporter noted the details of his surroundings that others might find inconsequential. The librarian’s plate, while full, conspicuously lacked any ham. And although the music professor had not foregone this dish entirely, his plate was much lighter on meat than one would expect of a man of his prodigious energy and appetites. Surmising that Professor Hill’s forbearance of the rather pungent roast stemmed from a desire to ensure his wife’s comfort, Fred couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt when Miss Marian’s nose wrinkled and discomfort entered her gaze as he set down his heaping plate of ham and took a seat next to her. But he quickly stifled this unwarranted and inconvenient emotion – this was no time to get soft!

“Not having any ham, Mrs. Hill?” he asked innocently as he dug into his lunch, which was just as delicious as the tantalizing aromas floating through the air had promised.

Professor Hill’s grin froze, and he shot the reporter an annoyed, appraising look. But Miss Marian simply laughed and shrugged, even as she continued to grimace at the odor of Fred’s meal. “I was never very fond of that particular meat.”

Now it was Fred who wore an appraising expression. Ignoring the impulse to hastily scarf down his ham and thus remove the offensive aroma from the librarian’s presence, he slowly nursed his meal and considered his next move. Miss Marian’s offhand response to his inquiry was too nonchalant – too _innocent_ – for it to be anything but sincere. Was it possible that she didn’t yet suspect her condition? That would certainly explain the unusual glimmer of apprehension in the music professor’s eyes!

Gratified that he was finally making some inroads into disturbing Professor Hill’s equanimity, Fred swallowed his mouthful of food and pressed onward. “Once again, the River City boys’ band has put on a wonderful show. In fact, I’d say you’ve positively outdone yourselves! I imagine you and the boys must spend a good deal of time rehearsing?”

Professor Hill shrugged, though from the pleased glimmer in his eyes, he was clearly reveling in this admittedly deserved praise for a job well done. “The boys attend rehearsals twice a week. It’s the planning of the concerts that takes up the majority of my time.” He gave his wife a fond smile. “That’s why Marian’s involvement remains crucial to the emporium’s success – I’d be lost without her unparalleled organizational skills and attention to detail.”

“Indeed,” Fred concurred. He turned to the librarian. “I imagine you must have quite the full calendar, especially now that you’re married and have a house and husband to look after! In addition to working at the emporium and the library, Mrs. Shinn was telling me you also serve as secretary for the Events Committee.”

“That’s right,” Miss Marian confirmed, her expression still pleasant and unsuspecting.

“My wife thrives on keeping busy,” the music professor interjected, but with a laugh that sounded awfully forced.

Fred nodded, though he kept his eyes trained on the librarian as he sliced into his ham, once again releasing the savory scent into the air around them. “I’m sure that the _Register and Leader’s_ female readers – especially those who are married – would love to know how you manage to keep up such a demanding schedule outside the home, Mrs. Hill.”

Miss Marian squirmed a little at that – though the reporter couldn’t definitively determine whether her sudden discomfort was brought on by the ham or his question. “As my husband said, organization and attention to detail is crucial. It also helps that Zaneeta Shinn works at the library three afternoons a week, so I can assist Harold at the emporium. My Events Committee duties are not as onerous as they may sound; they mainly involve taking the minutes at meetings, which are held bi-weekly.”

“So would you say that the library takes up the majority of your time, much as it did before you were married?” Fred asked, careful to keep his tone light in order to soften the frank and probing nature of his inquiries.

Miss Marian and her husband exchanged a small smile, even as the music professor continued to eye the reporter warily. “That’s probably a fair assessment,” she agreed. “Upon my marriage, I did have to relinquish a few of my previous occupations, such as giving piano lessons. But my mother has been doing that in my stead, and she enjoys it very much.”

“That’s right – you also have your mother and younger brother to look after!” Fred exclaimed, pretending to have forgotten about that. But little did they know the conversation was going exactly the way he wanted. Gazing at the librarian with sympathetic eyes, he delicately observed, “I would imagine your library work remains crucial to providing for them, at least until Winthrop reaches the age of majority and can embark on a career of his own.”

A flicker of anguish entered Miss Marian’s gaze – just as he’d planned, the reporter had successfully struck a chord. For even though the librarian was no longer a spinster pariah, it wasn’t likely she would ever completely forget the challenges of her previous life and what it felt like to be alone in the world, having no one to rely on but herself to keep the roof over her family’s head. “My work at the library _is_ crucial,” she agreed in a quiet voice. “But for more reasons than economic security alone.”

“Of course,” Fred said gallantly. “A woman of your intelligence and industry would languish if she were confined solely to the domestic sphere. If you don’t mind my saying, it’s my personal opinion that there’s no shame in a woman having to work outside the home to provide for her family – whether it be parents, siblings… or even her own children.”

Her eyes still glistening, Miss Marian gave the reporter a shaky but appreciative smile. But Professor Hill must’ve cottoned on to his game plan, because the man was now looking daggers at him. Fred’s smile only broadened; he had found the hornets beneath the shutters at last. Harold Hill, being a man of prodigious ego, could never stand being shunted to one side in any conversation – especially when he was forced to endure subtle but pointed insinuations that his own wife _had_ to work. For no matter how noble the reasons, Miss Marian’s continued employment must have chafed the bandleader’s pride, not only in his own masculinity, but in his newfound ability to earn a legitimate and sustainable living. The reporter knew he only had the opportunity to get one more question in before things turned ugly, so he’d better make it a good one. Fortunately, one more question was all he needed.

But he never got to ask it. Rising swiftly to her feet, Miss Marian said, “Would you gentlemen please excuse me? I need to stretch my legs.”

“Of course,” the two men answered in unison. Feeling the heat of Harold Hill’s glare upon him, Fred smirked quietly to himself. Although he would have liked to continue the conversation for just a little while longer, the reporter was more than happy to let her leave. Miss Marian had served her purpose beautifully; Professor Hill had finally dropped the “devoted husband” shtick and wasn’t even looking at his wife anymore. Once the librarian was out of earshot, the music professor was going to lay into him. Everything would come tumbling out then. And if, in the midst of his petulant malice, Harold Hill still didn’t say anything worth writing about, the reporter would at least have the satisfaction of seeing the bombastic showman cause a scene that tarnished his “Mr. Wonderful” image in front of all the people who revered him as a role model for their sons.

However, Fred’s designs were once again thwarted by the capriciousness of the fates. After taking only two steps forward, Miss Marian began to swoon. Horrified that his mealtime shenanigans might have caused real harm to her health, the reporter tossed aside his plate of ham and scrambled to stand so he could assist the librarian. But as ever, Professor Hill was quicker, leaping to his feet and catching his wife in his arms before Fred had even managed to straighten fully upright.

Yet even as the reporter ruefully eyed the scene before him, a cynical part of him wondered if the librarian’s faint was merely a feint, something to redirect her husband’s attention and defuse his anger. However, Miss Marian looked too miserably queasy for Fred to conclude that her malaise was anything but genuine; he knew quite well from past experience that the librarian was not _that_ good of an actress, especially not after he’d prodded her into a moment of raw honesty. And even if this was just a brilliant performance on her part, she’d provoked something in Harold Hill that Fred had never seen before.

“Marian,” Harold Hill said in a low, pleading voice, his gaze desperately riveted to her wan complexion and squeezed-shut eyes. He stroked her cheek. “Marian, please wake up… ”

Fred’s heart tightened at the way the music professor’s voice trembled as he continued to murmur his wife’s name, the way the alarm in his expression steadily increased as her eyes remained firmly closed. The reporter had witnessed such heart-wrenching scenes countless times before, in men facing disaster and the loss of everything they held dear. The music professor had indeed forgotten his anger, forgotten the reporter’s presence. But he had also forgotten himself. Before, Harold Hill’s gestures toward the librarian, while tender, were of a broad and expansive nature, meant to demonstrate to onlookers that this was _his_ wife and to reinforce the fact that out of all the men in the world who’d ever pursued her, she had chosen him. But now, he was a man quietly and heedlessly undone. Marian Paroo Hill was not simply a prop to boost his ego or a trophy to be displayed. She truly was his whole world.

“Marian,” Harold tried again, his voice cracking even more. “Marian, _please_ … ” He shook her very gently.

The librarian let out a nauseated groan and clung even tighter to her husband. “Don’t!” she gasped. “I’m terribly dizzy… ”

Looking both relieved and abashed, the music professor stopped jostling her. Instead, he pulled her into a warm hug and held her securely against him. A few more tense moments passed before the librarian finally relaxed in his arms and let out a soft sigh.

“What do you need, darling?” the music professor asked sweetly, looking like a man renewed. “Is there anything I can do or get for you?”

“Water,” she said weakly. And then, as if remembering her manners, she quickly added, “If you please.”

“I’ll get it,” Fred said immediately.

Professor Hill started – apparently, he really had forgotten the reporter was there! For once, Fred regretted announcing his presence; although he’d made this offer out of a genuine desire to help, he expected Professor Hill to put up a fuss and make a big show of getting the water himself. Not that he could have blamed the man for his overprotectiveness, as much as he would have liked to; Fred knew he hadn’t exactly been a model of gentility or trustworthiness that afternoon. But more scenes were not what the librarian needed right now.

However, to Fred’s surprise, the beleaguered music professor simply nodded and thanked him for his assistance, before helping a still rather pallid Miss Marian back to her seat on the blanket.

So Fred hastened to fetch the librarian a glass of water. And for good measure, he also cleared his dinner plate, making sure that the remaining ham was disposed of far away from Miss Marian’s sensitive nose. When he returned with the water, Professor Hill was seated closer to his wife than perhaps was proper even under these unusual circumstances, his arm firmly wrapped around her waist – a provocative sight which normally would have made Fred’s blood boil. But the only emotion the reporter felt was relief, because during his brief absence, Miss Marian had gotten her color back.

And just in time, too, because Tommy Djilas burst into their shady nook. “Professor,” he said with a wide grin, “It’s five minutes to three and I’ve got all the boys set up on the pavilion for the band’s final number, just like you wanted.”

Professor Hill likewise grinned, but it was a ghost of his usual rictus. “That’s great, Tommy. You run along and join them, and I’ll be there in a minute.”

The teen’s smile dimmed as he took in the way the music professor was holding his wife. “Is everything all right?” he asked nervously. “I could stall everyone for awhile, if you need me to… ”

“Everything’s fine, son,” he reassured the youth, and waved him away.

After Tommy left, Professor Hill turned to his wife as she took small, delicate sips of the water Fred had brought to her. “Do you need me to take you home, darling?”

Miss Marian swallowed, lowered her glass and shook her head. “It was only a mild spell of vertigo. I must have stood up too fast.”

Still, Professor Hill refused to budge. “Are you sure?”

“I’m _fine_ , Harold,” she insisted, this time with a smile. “And you’ve got a band to lead.”

Fred glanced at the pavilion through a gap in the foliage. Indeed, the boys’ band was assembled and the townspeople were waiting with expectant smiles for their bandleader to appear.

Also eying the waiting River City-ziens, Miss Marian gave her recalcitrant husband a nudge. “Go on, now.”

But the music professor still didn’t move. And after all that had happened, Fred no longer had it in him to muster up the cynicism required to believe that Professor Hill’s hesitation to leave his wife’s side was anything but real. Because it was suddenly clear to the reporter that the former flim-flam man hadn’t chosen River City, he’d chosen _her_. River City just happened to be part of the deal. As much as Professor Hill relished the attention and adulation of an audience, he was prepared to give it all up for the sake of the woman he loved.

Chastened, Fred spoke up. “I’ll look after her for you, Professor Hill.”

Professor Hill’s gaze immediately jerked upward, and he surveyed the reporter with suspicious eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment before replying, “All right… but if Marian takes ill again, I want you to come and get me, no matter how busy I am.”

“You have my word,” Fred promised.

Although he still looked somewhat skeptical, the music professor scrambled to his feet, set his shoulders determinedly forward, and hastened to take his place on the pavilion. Surprisingly, he didn’t give his wife so much as a backward glance and, when he turned to greet the crowd, that brilliant, devil-may-care grin was once again lighting up his countenance. In a matter of mere seconds, he had transformed from aggrieved husband into bombastic showman. It made Fred’s head spin and, though he dared not move any closer to the librarian, he sneaked a sideways glance at her to gauge her reaction to this significant change in his demeanor. Predictably, her attention was fixed wholly on Professor Hill’s form. _And_ she was beaming at him!

Feeling an unwelcome resurgence of irritation at this reminder of her devotion to the man, Fred forced himself to pay attention to the performance. Although the boys’ band sounded pleasant enough, the piece was nothing special, just a basic instrumental playing beneath the school board as they sang in surprisingly adept four-part harmony: 

_Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do,_  
 _I’m half crazy all for the love of you._  
 _It won’t be a stylish marriage –_  
 _I can’t afford a carriage_  
 _But you’d look sweet upon the seat_  
 _Of a bicycle built for two._

As the audience _oohed_ and _aahed_ in soft voices, Fred sneered at this mawkish tableau. Professor Hill was really tugging on the heartstrings of these small-town bumpkins with this trite and sentimental song selection; he couldn’t be less controversial if he tried! It was almost eerie, how wholesome and jejune the River City Easter Parade had turned out, as if the music professor had foreseen Fred’s new story angle all along, and had set about doing his utmost to thwart the reporter’s nefarious intentions.

Now thoroughly disenchanted with the day, Fred spent the rest of the performance gazing openly at Miss Marian. She really was a lovely woman, with her sleek blonde tresses and elegant ensemble. Such a shame that he hadn’t been the man to meet her first! Because as ever, the librarian only had eyes for Harold Hill, watching her husband with deep affection and admiration.

Feeling that acute kick to his gut again, Fred scowled and turned his attention to the crowd. Although he took care to avoid the sight of the music professor conducting, the man’s smooth but ridiculously expansive gesticulations tugged at the edge of his vision, as bothersome as a buzzing gnat that would not leave him alone. What was it that she saw in that scoundrel? And what did he see in her? As a man of the world, Harold Hill had surely met far more gorgeous and enticing women in his travels! There were many young ladies among the River City-ziens alone who were just as pretty, just as charming, just as well-dressed as Miss Marian – even if the librarian did possess an undeniable air of sophistication and erudition the other female townspeople lacked. But just like the librarian, they all stared at Professor Hill with rapt, dreamy-eyed bliss. So much fawning adoration wasn’t conducive to keeping a fellow eternally faithful to his wife, especially not a fellow with Professor Hill’s massive arrogance. As besotted as the charming showman might be with Miss Marian at present, he had dozens of pretty lasses making cow’s eyes at him and perhaps even waiting patiently in the wings; one of them would surely catch his fancy once the novelty of marriage wore off!

Indeed, when _Daisy Bell_ finally concluded, Fred noted with a smirk just how gleefully Harold Hill basked in all that applause and cheering. And he still didn’t spare a single look in his ailing wife’s direction. Apparently, his earlier concern for her well-being was yet another exaggerated performance put on for the reporter’s benefit.

So Fred decided to pose one more question to the librarian, while they were alone together. Continuing to scan the crowd – it was crucial that he keep his countenance detached, and he knew that he could not maintain his mask of nonchalance if he looked directly at her – he casually asked:

“Do you ever wonder, Miss Marian, that with all the adoration he receives from other parties, your husband will eventually stop looking your way?”

Complete silence met his inquiry, and Fred wondered if, at last, he had triumphed in interjecting a little much-needed reality into her romantic reverie – and what that might mean for him. His stomach twisting itself into knots, he slowly turned to face the librarian.

He was crushed to see that Miss Marian did not look at all perturbed. Indeed, she looked like she hadn’t even heard his words; she was still serenely surveying the commotion around her husband.

“Mrs. Hill?” Mr. Gallup politely interjected, louder this time. He dared not risk calling her “Miss Marian” again; his voice was already getting dangerously close to shaking.

She started. “Oh – Mr. Gallup, I’m sorry! Did you want something?”

 _You_ , he thought peevishly. And then, to his horror, he felt his face flush hotly crimson – something that hadn’t happened since he’d bashfully but eagerly fumbled his way into a woman’s bed for the first time in his life. Fortunately, the lady had found his nervousness charming, and warmed even more to his overtures. But Fred, who’d long since honed his reputation as a genteel and debonair paramour, would always recall his initial clumsiness with chagrin. Desperate to maintain what was left of his dignity, he whirled around to face the pavilion again. People were chattering cheerfully and mothers were hugging their sons, but oddly, the great Professor Hill was nowhere to be seen. Why wasn’t he still in the thick of things?

“Mr. Gallup?” Miss Marian’s sweet voice intoned from behind him. “Is something the matter?”

At last, Fred had gotten her full attention. With nothing left to lose and potentially everything to gain, he could have gone over, sat right down next to her, and whispered into her ear not just that question, but everything else he’d always wanted to tell her. And if words couldn’t make her see Professor Hill’s unworthiness, perhaps a kiss would do the job. At the very least, it would show the lovely librarian exactly what she’d missed out on by passing him up in favor of a fly-by-night scoundrel – and just what was waiting for her in Des Moines when her reprobate husband eventually flew the coop.

Fred ought to have said and done all these things last August, when the two of them were alone in the library together. Once again, the early bird had missed his chance – but better he make his move late than never. If only he could be certain of the music professor’s whereabouts! Nevertheless, the reporter marshaled his valor and turned to face Miss Marian again, who had, to his shock, risen to her feet, her countenance aglow with concern and curiosity. Fred’s heart started to thump crazily in his chest, and for one exhilarating moment, he wondered if he’d underestimated his appeal to the librarian. Had she shrewdly anticipated his advances, after all? Did she _welcome_ them?

But when his yearning eyes finally met those of the woman he’d longed for all these months, the reporter found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak. As much as he longed to tell her just how much he wanted and needed her, something deeper and stronger in him wouldn’t let him say the words. And then, as if the universe wished to punish Fred for his cowardly hesitation at this crucial moment, Professor Hill came bursting into their little alcove.

“Marian!” he cried out in an exhilarated voice, sweeping her up into his arms. “How were we?” he asked nervously, as if the crowd’s exaltation meant absolutely nothing in comparison to the librarian’s seal of approval. “But more importantly, how are _you_?”

Miss Marian laughed gleefully and threw her arms around her husband as if he’d been away for hours instead of minutes. “I’m completely recovered. And you and the boys were _wonderful_ , Harold.”

In response, Professor Hill gave her a fond and ardent look, as if he wanted nothing more than to whisk her off somewhere even more hidden and make love to her as soon as he could possibly arrange it. Not only that, the librarian looked like she was entertaining the exact same notion, her heated gaze silently but unequivocally urging him onward.

“Oh, Marian,” the music professor moaned, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was long, joyful and deep.

Although this was clearly his cue to skedaddle, Fred remained too staggered to move. His brain, which usually grasped and summed up situations at a lightning-quick pace, struggled to catch up as it once again dawned on him just how completely and willfully he’d misjudged not only Harold Hill, but Marian Paroo. Not only was the librarian wholly and irrevocably in love, her warm effusiveness never failed to shatter the showman’s façade. No matter how much the music professor enjoyed presenting his slick persona to the crowd, he dropped all pretense with her. Fred had been a fool to think that this erstwhile traveling salesman would tire of the woman who’d made his stunning success as a legitimate bandleader possible, and he’d been an even bigger fool to think his paltry words and kisses could ever win the heart of Mrs. Harold Hill.

But the worst part of it all was that the reporter had absolutely no story to write. At least, no story that his editor would accept for publication. So in all likelihood, this trip would cost him money as well as pride.

It was time for him to leave River City.

Turning toward the train station, Fred began the long and tedious march back to his solitary existence in Des Moines. Perhaps he ought to have returned to Charleston after his freshman year of college and married Bess, after all. Life in the big city was starting to lose its luster without anyone to share it with, and even if the occupation of store clerk proved intolerably dreary, at least he would have come home to a woman who happily warmed his bed at night – and remained steadfastly ensconced his arms when he woke up the next morning.

XXX

But as it turned out, Harold Hill wasn’t quite finished with him yet. As Fred glumly waited at the empty freight depot for his train to arrive, his solitude was interrupted by the very fellow he would have ranked as the last person he ever wanted to see again in his life.

“Oh, good – you’re still here,” the music professor gasped as he sped into sight, breathless with relief, as if the reporter was a treasured comrade who almost slipped through his fingers.

Lacking the will or even the patience for his usual courteous demeanor, Fred brusquely inquired, “What do you want, Hill? Come to rub it in even more how completely and totally you’ve triumphed over your adversary?”

To his shock, the music professor took his open hostility in stride, and merely gave the reporter a perplexed blink. “I came to invite you to the communal supper the Events Committee is hosting at the armory before you left town. Thought it would be a long ride back to Des Moines on an empty stomach.”

The reporter’s frown deepened. He’d much rather the man threw a punch at him – at least it would be an honest gesture on his part! “The train will have a dining car,” he stiffly declined.

The music professor shrugged, still irritatingly nonchalant. “Maybe, but you’re not likely to get a meal that’s nearly as good. Believe me, I know.”

Bewildered by the man’s insistence of maintaining an affable façade between the two of them, Fred wondered if a concerned Miss Marian had put her husband up to chasing after him like this. This notion made him even angrier; he wanted no one’s pity, least of all _hers_. “Enough, already, with the false overtures of concern for my welfare!” he burst. “We both know that you’d be far happier to see me on the next train out of town, so why did you bother coming here? Why couldn’t you have just let me go without a fuss?” Without waiting for a response, he leaped to his feet and took a few belligerent steps forward, scattering dirt all over his just recently-polished shoes as he approached his nonplused nemesis. “But you needn’t bother answering, I already know why. You came here because you’re a man who has to win in every conceivable way. And until you do, you keep your friends close and your enemies even closer. Even though you’ve got this whole damn town and its lovely yet formidable librarian happily eating out of the palm of your hand, you can’t stand the fact that someone you courted as a valuable ally to your cause, someone whose support you _need_ to expand your fledgling business outside the borders of this hick village, might be lingering out there in the wider world, hating your guts!”

The music professor, who’d listened to this diatribe with narrowed eyes and a cool expression, let out a short laugh. “Is that what you really think?”

“It’s not what I think – it’s the truth,” Fred hotly retorted.

The music professor’s countenance turned disappointed. “Oh, Fred,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I thought you were a lot smarter than that. That’s not why I came after you, at all!”

For a moment, Fred couldn’t see straight due to the sheer wave of fury that coursed through his veins. His hands balled into fists, and he seriously contemplated taking a swing at the maddeningly composed man standing before him. If harsh words couldn’t goad Harold Hill out of his condescending detachment, maybe decking him would do the trick!

But then, before Fred could take another step forward, his rational side intervened. _This is exactly what he wants! If he can’t win you over with food and flattery, he’ll break you down until you give him what he’s after._

When Fred realized what the music professor had almost succeeded in doing, his fury ebbed so much that he had to repress a laugh. How ridiculous that _he_ , who’d been a seasoned reporter for over a decade, had nearly fallen for a ploy he’d used so many times before to ferret the truth out of reluctant interviewees! Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Fred considered his options. He had to regain control of both his emotions and the situation. But before he could do that, he had to determine precisely what notions were currently informing the music professor’s undeserved air of authority – as erroneous and distorted as the man’s perception of reality may be! Unclenching his fists and smoothing his facial features into a similar mask of nonchalance, the reporter coolly inquired,

“Then why did you come after me, _Professor_ Hill?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute,” he said smoothly. “But before I do, I’ve got a question for you. I know my prior occupation isn’t what you’d call honorable, but I’ve earned my place in River City, fair and square. I may deserve censure for the things I’ve taken from others in the past, but what did I ever take from _you_ that made you hate me so much?” He gave the reporter a sharp glance. “And don’t say Marian Paroo, because she was never yours in the first place.” He let out a grating laugh. “If anything, you’re the one who’s tried to take her from me!”

“I’ve never done anything of the sort!” Fred bristled, once again finding himself inexplicably on the defensive. “The only thing I’ve ever offered the librarian is a few pleasant gallantries.”

“You might not have made any overt advances toward my wife,” Professor Hill allowed, regarding him with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, “but I’d wager that you’ve entertained more than a few thoughts along those lines in that sly, calculating mind of yours.”

Deciding it was high time _he_ got an unsettling dig in for a change, Fred brazenly acknowledged the truth. “And if I _have_ thought about taking her away from you?” he challenged. “What are you going to do about it?”

Professor Hill grinned. “The same thing any sane and reasonable man in my position would do: absolutely nothing.”

Now it was Fred’s turn to give a grating laugh. Of course Harold Hill would do nothing. And what’s more, he’d be right to rest on his laurels. For all his animosity, the reporter no longer presented a significant threat to the music professor’s love life, and they both knew it.

“Then why are you here?” Fred asked with a scowl.

Professor Hill’s eyes narrowed. “I’m here because I wanted to make something clear to you. I don’t care if you despise me; I’m not trying to be your friend or to ‘win you over to my cause,’ as you persist in thinking. I don’t even care if you make cow’s eyes at my wife. What I refuse to put up with is your jealous prying into her private affairs regarding sensitive matters that we have yet to discuss even between ourselves.”

Fred’s eyes widened in shock. Yet it wasn’t the information itself that surprised him, it was Harold Hill’s willingness to speak so frankly about the matter.

“Yes, my wife is, in all likelihood, expecting,” the music professor confirmed. “But I’m waiting for her to come to me with the news. It’s still rather early days – too early for a woman as innocent as her to suspect her condition.” Now it was his turn to take a few menacing steps forward. “I’m not about to sit idly by and wait for my sweet wife to find out about her own pregnancy at the same time as the rest of Iowa does – thanks to a slyly dropped hint about ‘Madame Curie’s’ condition in an article in one of the state’s biggest newspapers. So you better consider your words real carefully when preparing your story for publication, _Mister_ Gallup. Go ahead and feel free to badmouth me to your heart’s content; take a cheap potshot at the celebrated bandleader whose wife must work outside the home to help support their household, or whatever insult you think would hurt my pride the most.” Looking graver and more resolute than Fred had ever seen him, Harold Hill took another step forward and jabbed a finger into the reporter’s chest. “But if you write _anything_ that hurts or embarrasses Marian, I will personally make sure that you regret whatever poison your pen spews.”

Fred coolly raised an eyebrow. Although he had no such story to write, it was about time the balance of power started tipping in his direction! “Is that a threat, Professor Hill?” he asked idly. “I don’t take kindly to those… and they’ve never stopped me before.” His scowl deepened and he said, this time with real conviction, “Any reporter who’d go back on his principles merely because a little personal risk is involved isn’t worthy of the profession.”

Professor Hill glared at him with those uncomfortably penetrating eyes of his. “And what principles would those be, exactly? Embarrassing a decent, modest and gracious lady whose only transgression was to spurn your advances? Damaging the reputation of a man who’s merely trying to earn enough of a living to support his growing family – and doing this out of jealousy and spite that a woman who caught your fancy chose him instead of you?”

Fred, who was used to all manner of attempted denigration of his character from defensive interviewees shrinking from reality’s harsh glare – like cockroaches scrambling out of a bright light aimed at them – would normally have given out just as good as he got. But somehow, he could find absolutely nothing to say. The plain truth of the matter was that no matter how fickle Harold Hill’s heart might prove to be in the future, the man had given up a great deal to be with Marian Paroo _now_. Fred hadn’t been willing to give up so much as the cost of a train ticket; he wouldn’t have even come to River City if the paper wasn’t going to reimburse him his travel costs. So which man would an objective observer say was more deserving of the librarian’s love? The music professor with the checkered past who’d sacrificed everything to be with her, or the reporter who merely showed up to town on assignment and expected a loyal companion to fall into his arms simply as a reward for having kept on the straight and narrow path all his life?

Fred’s stomach began to churn uncomfortably as he contemplated these thoughts, and his expression must have revealed his discomfort, because suddenly, Harold Hill’s hand was on his shoulder and he was regarding the reporter with sympathetic concern. “When I first met you last August, you _were_ a man of great principle and conscience, Fred. But over the past several months, you’ve become a bitter shell of that man.” He sighed. “I won’t ask what happened to change you, because we both know the answer to that. We both know what it’s like to want something we can’t have, to hungrily eye another man’s heaping plate of goods. But unlike you, I’ve spent a good deal of my life taking as much as I could from those plates and sating my appetites at others’ expense and, despite what you might surmise, it’s not something I’m proud of. I certainly wouldn’t recommend going down that road – it’ll just leave you even more starved in the end.”

The music professor’s gloating might have been annoying, but his pity was unbearable. Removing the man’s hand from his shoulder, Fred coldly opined, “If you’re so filled with regret over your past behavior, you ought to hop a train to Brighton, Illinois and turn yourself in to the law. You should be atoning for your thievery in a jail cell – it’s an affront to justice that a two-bit swindler like you should become a successful bandleader enjoying a comfortable existence with a loyal and loving wife!”

Although a flicker of annoyance crossed Professor Hill’s face at the reporter’s remark, his voice was level as he replied, “As I said before, whatever I might have done in the past, I earned my place in River City and by Marian’s side fair and square. You might not like that things worked out so well for me, but let me assure you, all men pay the price for their actions in one way or another, and even though I managed to avoid prison, I certainly didn’t escape from my former livelihood unscathed. Fortunately, Providence is far more merciful than man, and when I was given this golden opportunity to reform, you better believe I took it!” He sighed again. “You can preach at me about high-flying notions of justice all you want, but what good would giving myself up to be jailed do for my wife? Marian is going to be a mother, and if you care anything at all for her, you won’t make it harder for _her_ to survive by taking her husband away from her at such a crucial time! You once told Marian that even a journalist could understand there were times when the greater good trumped the cold, hard facts. So while you might be justified in despising me out of principle alone, are you really so hard-hearted as to destroy a burgeoning family? And not just a family, but a town that depends on its beloved boys’ band?”

 _Not much fun being on the other end of the interrogation, is it?_ Fred’s mind wryly observed. Although the reporter could no longer deny how greatly his own petty vindictiveness had colored his view of the situation, he wasn’t about to admit his mistakes openly to this man, who as correct as he may be in his assessments, was still untrustworthy on the whole. So he seized on the one point he could still argue, albeit feebly: “River City survived just fine without you before, and they could survive without you again,” he said with more derisiveness than he actually felt. “You are not the town itself!”

“No, I’m certainly not,” Professor Hill agreed. “But I’m sure you could guess what River City was like before, without music. Would you take that music away, merely out of spite? As a music man yourself, Fred, could you really do that?”

Now thoroughly beaten, Fred let out a long sigh, and his shoulders slumped. He couldn’t do such a thing, not even out of spite. He’d seen towns without music – prim, dull, cheerless places.

Giving the reporter’s shoulder a grateful pat, Harold pulled a sandwich out of his pocket. “I figured you wouldn’t come to supper, so I brought this to give to you for the ride back.”

Fred took the sandwich without protest. “Thank you,” he said in a quiet voice.

The two men stood in awkward silence for a few moments, until the reporter finally decided that if he wanted to make any headway in achieving his former grasp of principle, he may as well start by giving the music professor his due. Lifting his head to meet Professor Hill’s gaze, he sheepishly confessed, “I couldn’t damage your reputation with my pen even if I wanted to. My boss doesn’t want another bucolic paean to a marvelous boys’ band in small-town Iowa, but I found absolutely no other story I can possibly tell. So I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for any news articles to come out about River City, complimentary or otherwise.”

Looking neither surprised nor chagrined, Harold nodded. “Well… in that case, I’m sorry we’ve wasted your time.”

Fred smiled wanly. “You win some, you lose some,” he said with a shrug. “Please give my regards to your wife,” he added as his train pulled in. “And when it becomes appropriate, my congratulations.”

“Will do,” Harold promised, giving his hand a hearty shake. And so the reporter and the music professor parted, no longer enemies… but not quite friends, either. Just like the last time he’d left River City.

Fred sighed, and then chuckled. Apparently, he was doomed to a life of repetition – losing Bess, futilely pining for Marian Paroo, being thoroughly yet deservedly trounced by a scoundrel of a man he still couldn’t help liking, riding trains through stark landscapes as he pursued his lonely and increasingly thankless profession. What good was rooting out the unvarnished truth if revealing it would only hurt innocent people and rob the world of a brilliant and highly accessible new way to learn music?

Unwrapping his sandwich and gazing at the endless cornfields as they flashed by in the fading daylight, Fred started humming softly to himself. _Seventy six trombones led the big parade…_

XXX

Once the train to Des Moines had pulled out of the River City freight depot and disappeared into the horizon, Harold finally let the friendly grin slide off his face. He and Marian had really dodged a bullet; as his grumbling guts had surmised, Fred Gallup was aiming to do some real damage this time around. Normally, Harold would have relished the sheer and dizzying thrill of achieving victory after risking everything, but now that he had a wife, a family and a town that depended on his success, he’d grown surprisingly apprehensive about such close shaves. Yet the music professor had to take the chance of laying both his reputation and his business on the line, because if the emporium’s curriculum never had the opportunity to catch on anywhere else besides small-town Iowa, his marvelous Think System would, in all likelihood, die right along with him.

However, if Harold had known just how twisted by bitterness the reporter had become over the past six months, he never would’ve invited him back to River City a second time. Although he was much more secure in both his beloved’s devotion and his boys’ abilities, he sensed that real trouble was brewing when Fred Gallup accepted his invitation; there was a reason talking to, kissing, caressing and even making love to Marian couldn’t vanquish the small but stubborn knot of nervousness persisting in the pit of his stomach as the Easter festivities approached. Indeed, soon after the reporter’s arrival to town, it became unnervingly clear to Harold that the main reason the man had come back was because he did indeed have a score to settle. So even though the former conman knew he’d once again triumphed in demonstrating his legitimacy as a bandleader when his boys concluded their final performance at Madison Park Pavilion, some little bird had whispered into his ear ( _the early bird, perhaps?_ Harold wryly recalled Fred Gallup’s favorite maxim) that he’d better curtail his passionate celebrations with his wife for the time being so he could skedaddle to the freight depot and do a little “un-twisting” of Fred Gallup’s bruised ego before it was too late.

It was yet another tremendous risk on his part, stirring up the muck in a beleaguered man’s soul, but to Harold’s mind, it was a risk well worth taking. Because for all the music professor’s bravado, he knew Fred Gallup could easily have found another way to hurt him, even if he lacked enough factual material to compose a damning story. Trusting that deep down, the reporter was still a man of principle – and what’s more, truly cared about Marian – the music professor appealed to his sense of compassion by confessing suspicions about the librarian’s condition that he hadn’t even aired to Marcellus Washburn, the one man he would have trusted with his life.

Admittedly, he could be mistaken in this supposition, as pregnancy was an entirely new arena for the former fly-by-night salesman, despite his knowledge of the world. As such, he hadn’t yet dared to raise the possibility even to Marian. He’d falsely gotten his hopes up once before: In December, his wife hadn’t gotten her courses at all, and Harold had tentatively started to fathom impending fatherhood until he was definitively proven wrong sometime in the middle of January. However, that was the last month the librarian had experienced such affliction; it was now nearing the end of March, and their nighttime canoodling still had yet to be interrupted by her cycle. And the fact that Marian had gotten sick to her stomach while preparing the mutton for the Irish stew last week only clinched it for Harold. So while it might have been an extremely foolhardy move for the music professor to reveal such delicate assumptions to a man who’d sooner see him ruined or even imprisoned rather than wish him felicitations for his good fortune, he decided to play that card – which, in truth, was the only worthwhile card he held.

Fortunately, Harold’s instincts had once again steered him to safety; this game-changing news ultimately succeeded in piercing the fog of bitterness surrounding the reporter, and the two men ended up parting on the best terms possible. Admittedly, things still weren’t peaches and cream between the music professor and the reporter and, in all likelihood, never would be, but at least Harold could return to his dear little librarian’s arms with the confidence that he’d once again managed to overcome an ominous obstacle in the course of his building a life with her.

Yet even in the midst of his relief, the music professor felt a strange sense of wistfulness; a lack of fulfillment, as if there was an opportunity he’d once again missed out on. As uneasy and infuriated as Fred Gallup had made him, Harold was not a man who had it in him to downright hate another person and, given that they both had a deep love of music in common, he considered it a real shame the two of them couldn’t manage to form a pleasant, intellectually stimulating and mutually beneficial acquaintance. Perhaps someday, when Fred found the happiness he was looking for, he might be receptive to renewed overtures of friendship…

But in the meantime, Harold had done all he could do at present. Now he had a wife to get home to, a business to oversee, and perhaps fatherhood to anticipate. So Fred Gallup once again slipped safely to the back of the music professor’s mind as he returned to his full and rewarding life in River City.


	2. Let a Woman in Your Life

_Let a woman in your life and you invite eternal strife…_  
 _I shall never let a woman in my life._  
 _~Professor Henry Higgins, My Fair Lady_

XXX

Upon waking up on Monday morning, Fred Gallup’s first act was to shave off his pencil mustache. He’d first grown it the summer after high school graduation as an experiment, and ended up keeping it mainly because Bess thought it made him look distinguished. But as she had ended up marrying the clean-shaven Henry Harper, the reporter supposed he might as well do as he pleased. And right now, it pleased him to save himself a little extra grooming in the mornings.

Once that task was accomplished, Fred headed into the office. Having returned from River City with no story to write, he braced himself to face his boss’s displeasure as he walked into the building – and was surprised to discover the flurry of activity, which was rather unusual for the day after a major holiday. But noteworthy news had its own timetable, and something big must have happened yesterday. Unfortunately, before the reporter could gather information through the grapevine as to what had occurred on Easter Sunday to merit all this ado, his boss spotted him and whisked him into his office for a chat.

As editor of the _Des Moines Register and Leader_ , Gardner Bowles was a visionary who appreciated artfully crafted prose and encouraged the paper’s reporters to tell vivid stories that the public would remember. But in daily conversation, he did not mince words. Nor did he allow his employees to beat around the bush when giving him their progress reports. So Fred got straight to the point, telling his boss that the only thing he had to report was that Sunday’s weather was gorgeous, the Easter parade went off without a single hitch, and everything was just fine and dandy in River City.

Instead of exploding, Mr. Bowles beamed at him. “Perfect – just what I was looking for. Write that story and give it to me first thing tomorrow morning.”

Flabbergasted, Fred left his boss’s office and, deciding to table the assignment for now, returned his attention to discovering what had happened on Easter Sunday. As it turned out, unusual atmospheric conditions had passed over both Nebraska and Iowa yesterday. Several tornados had developed, with the worst of the storms causing unprecedented destruction and loss of life in Omaha, Nebraska. Reports of disaster were also coming in all the way from Topeka, Kansas, which had been assailed by a huge dust storm, and Terre Haute, Indiana, which had been struck by one of the tornadoes. Fortunately, the state of Iowa had somehow managed to weather these tempests without major catastrophe, but it was going to take months to tally the damage throughout the Midwest.

At first, Fred was well and truly irked that in the midst of devastation so unparalleled even the stiff-necked Hawkeyes were trembling with awe at nature’s wrath, he was relegated to writing a trite, saccharine little story about a holiday parade in the middle of nowhere. Talk about an unremarkable event, in the grand scheme of things!

And then it hit him – that was precisely the angle Mr. Bowles was after. As the shaken populace struggled not just to rebuild, but to regain their innate sense of conviction that God was in heaven and all was right with the world, River City’s Easter Parade would be just the relieving beacon of wholesome normality Iowans would wish to cling to during these troubled times. Marching right to his desk, Fred sat down and wrote the sweet little story his boss asked for, with genuine good cheer. He was in such a charitable mood about the assignment that he even put in something to spur a little philanthropy for the River City boys’ band. As the reporter read over his prose one final time, he couldn’t help smirking. He knew full well Harold Hill would take his remark about threadbare uniforms as a sly little dig – but this “dig” was going to net the man some donations for new outfits. For Fred, this was the perfect note to hit.

As soon as the article was printed, the reporter made sure to mail several editions of that day’s _Register and Leader_ directly to the music professor. Just as promptly, Harold Hill sent a telegram expressing his thanks, and Fred considered the matter closed. Good – he had atoned for his sins against the man, and could now proceed to forget about River City forever.

But apparently, Providence was not done reminding the reporter of his past foibles. In the middle of May, Fred received an actual letter from Professor Hill, thanking him profusely for the philanthropy his article did indeed spur for the emporium – and closing with the oblique note, “If all goes well, I will happily and gratefully deliver your kind congratulations to Mrs. Hill when the time comes in late October.”

At that, Fred simply smiled and shook his head – he could almost see the twinkle in Harold Hill’s eye as he wrote that line – before putting the letter aside. Though he appreciated the music professor’s acknowledgment, it was a stark reminder of just how greatly River City, as small and insignificant a place as it was, continued to affect his life. His Easter Parade article had been so popular that Mr. Bowles henceforth gave him all the lighthearted, puff-piece assignments for the paper – circuses, carnivals, state fairs, theatrical performances, high-society fêtes, and the like. As it turned out, the reporter had a wonderful knack for writing stories that both skewered and celebrated these types of events, which he had always derisively dismissed as the “cotton candy” of journalism.

The latest frivolity Fred was assigned to cover was _No, No Nanette_ , a new musical slated to open in Des Moines that very evening. As the reporter regarded his clean-shaven reflection in the mirror before leaving his apartment, he ruefully wondered if it had been a professional mistake to shave off his mustache. Perhaps Bess, even with her stubborn affinity for rustic living, had been a lot savvier about his appearance than he’d given her credit for…

But as it was too late to grow anything back in time for tonight’s performance, Fred merely sighed, gave his mustache-less face one last, resigned smile, and departed for the theater.

XXX

Fred Gallup wasn’t sure which was worse: having to sit through the most cloying, silly and sentimental musical he’d ever had the misfortune to witness ( _Tea for Two_ was far more grating to the senses than _Seventy Six Trombones_ could ever hope to be!), or having to endure the sudden, uncontrolled and intense heat that seared through his entire body whenever Lucy van der Hoeven was onstage. Unfortunately, since she was starring as Nanette, the reporter spent a good deal of the performance trying to quell these exasperating stirrings. He hadn’t experienced such an excessive rush of lust for a woman since… well, he couldn’t actually pinpoint when. He’d fallen in love with Bess long before he gained any practical experience in the art of lovemaking, and even though their embraces were sweet and full of promise, he’d never felt an overwhelming urgency to hasten the consummation of their union. As for Marian Hill, nee Paroo, he _had_ suffered that keen and impatient desire – especially in the months after he left River City for the first time, when forgetting the lovely librarian proved far more challenging than he’d anticipated – but not to this degree.

Not only was this acute attraction unexpected, it flummoxed Fred completely. Lucy van der Hoeven was nothing like the kind of woman he’d been drawn to in the past. Fred’s preference had always been tall blondes with hour-glass figures. But with her bobbed raven tresses, glittering green eyes, pert sylphlike countenance and petite but willowy frame, Lucy was as far apart in looks from Bess or Marian – as well as the majority of his casual affairs – as it was possible to get. But there was something about the subtle but rhythmic awareness of her hips as she moved and the quiet but knowing gleam of amusement in her eyes, even as she played the enthusiastic ingénue, that made Fred want to march onstage, grab her by the waist and whisk her away somewhere with “nobody near us, to see us or hear us!”

Fred scowled as the irrepressible tune intruded on his feverish reverie of all the ways he would make Miss van der Hoeven melt and moan and undulate those lithe hips of hers against his if he ever got her alone and willing. In an effort to drown the song out, he clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt and tried to recall the melody for _Seventy Six Trombones_. But it was no use – he was going to be humming _Tea for Two_ for the next month! And he’d be dreaming of Lucy van der Hoeven warming his bed for far longer than that.

If Fred had seen this show before taking that fateful trip to River City to cover the Easter parade, he wouldn’t have hesitated to find his way to the actress’s dressing room after the show concluded and, using his credentials as a reporter, get his foot in the door long enough to endear himself to her. And if he played his cards right, Lucy would have indeed warmed his bed that same night. But as it had been at least six months since he’d been with a woman, Fred hesitated to embark on a new affair. After he’d left River City last August, the reporter had attempted to move on with his life by throwing himself into bed with any and every female who caught even his slightest fancy. But to his chagrin, he could only see blonde ringlets and sweet hazel eyes coupled with devilishly crimson lips whenever he attempted to make love to a lady. After several months of this misery, which only seemed to deepen each time he took a woman to bed, Fred finally came to the conclusion that it would be far less torturous to live a celibate life. So he ceased pursuing the fairer sex entirely. Surprisingly, once he stopped trying so hard to assuage the gnawing loneliness in the pit of his stomach, he found that life became bearable again. Not only that, his cravings for physical pleasure diminished as time passed – or so he thought until he returned to River City a second time. No doubt the lack of a woman’s warmth for so many months fueled his bitter jealousy when he saw Harold Hill so happily married, and to the lovely librarian he’d fancied!

Fortunately, the reporter’s chat with the music professor at the freight depot had finally succeeded in obliterating his foolish fancies for River City’s librarian. However, Fred was still loath to risk entangling his heart or even merely his body with any female, no matter how consuming his desire for her. As much as he wanted this dark-haired actress with the laughing eyes, he sure as hell wasn’t going to make a play for her – given his ill luck when it came to being the early bird, it was highly likely that the charming and captivating Lucy van der Hoeven already had a lover!

So Fred turned his thoughts to his assignment as best he could, even as the passionate kiss “Nanette” shared with her well-meaning but simple-minded beau severely tested his resolve not to introduce himself to Lucy later this evening. Even just watching her make pretend love was enough to send him into a frenzy of intolerable yearning… But enough of that nonsense, it was time to formulate his review.

After assessing the overall plot of the show, the reporter’s first inclination was to give _No, No Nanette_ a thorough flogging. While the songs were clever and memorable – infuriatingly so, in his opinion – they could not make up for the story’s excessive mawkishness. It was a real shame, too, because the supporting cast was, for the most part, excellent. Of course, Lucy van der Hoeven outshone them all with her unconventional but striking beauty, tremendous stage presence and rich, sultry singing voice. But even her charisma could not keep Fred from rolling his eyes at the improbable “happily ever after” her character ended up in; as Nanette swooned in Tom Trainor’s embrace and entreated him to marry her that very day, the reporter couldn’t stifle a snort of disgust. Lucy’s talents were completely wasted on this insipid dreck! An actress of her caliber belonged in a serious drama or, at the very least, a comedy with a more mature plot. Even a naughty burlesque would have made far better use of her genius for the cunning risqué.

However, while Fred was a reporter, he wasn’t a conscienceless bastard. Or at least, he didn’t consider himself as such. While he normally wouldn’t have hesitated to excoriate _No, No Nanette_ , he couldn’t quite bring himself to be so merciless, even as he wondered if the startling attraction he felt toward Lucy van der Hoeven was muddling his judgment of her actual talent. So in the end, he struck a balance between honesty and tact: While he praised the talent of the troupe and the merriness of the music to the high heavens, he gave the story a thorough trouncing. Of course, he knew the general public would eat this fluff right up with a spoon, even if his review discouraged a few of Des Moines’s more discerning theatergoers from attending any of the performances.

Satisfied that he’d adhered to his journalistic principles without damaging Lucy’s livelihood, Fred ought to have washed his hands of the matter and moved on to his next assignment. Instead, the reporter found himself reserving his evenings to attend every subsequent performance of _No, No Nanette_. Although he despised the musical more and more each time he sat through it, he had to see Lucy – even if he still refused to try meeting her. As soon as the curtain fell, he’d go straight home, collapse into bed and recall every bewitching nuance of the actress’s facial expressions and movements until he finally fell into a feverish doze that somehow left him more exhausted than if he hadn’t attempted to sleep at all. Each morning, as Fred dragged himself bleary-eyed into the office, he chided himself for being a sentimental fool – and a coward, to boot! But when show time rolled around later that night, he’d be first in line at the box office and, more often than not, sitting right in the front row of the theater, his heart pounding and body trembling with anticipation as he waited for Lucy to make her first entrance.

Despite his discontent, Fred accepted his present state of affairs with droll resignation. Given the pattern his previous romantic failures always seemed to follow, how fitting that he should be reduced to literally watching the woman he wanted dance into and out of his life, a woman he could gaze at to his heart’s content but never so much as extend his hand to brush the hem of her gauzy skirts as she sashayed across the stage only mere inches from where he sat. For all her riveting vivaciousness, Lucy van der Hoeven was ephemeral as a mayfly; all too soon, she and her theater troupe would move on, leaving the reporter with yet another unattainable vision he couldn’t shake the next time loneliness inevitably got the better of him and he sought a lover to dull the pain of solitude. Only from now on, he’d see a brunette bob, brilliant green eyes and laughing crimson lips.

XXX

Late one Friday afternoon in early June, after Fred had passed a full two weeks of seeing _No, No Nanette_ every single night, Lucy van der Hoeven came to his office.

Although the reporter had dreamed of the actress nearly every night since he first laid eyes on her, and although she was always lingering somewhere in the back of his mind no matter how busy he was during the day, Fred almost didn’t recognize her at first. Whereas Miss van der Hoeven strode boldly onstage wearing a saucy smile, she now approached his desk with the quiet stride and decorous expression one would expect of any well-bred lady one might meet in a run-of-the-mill social situation. Her ensemble was also strikingly different than her garish and gauzy “Nanette” costumes, which were designed to catch the eye; today, she wore a demure, dark-blue velvet walking suit trimmed with navy twill tape and sporting a line of tasteful abalone buttons up the skirt, to match the ones on her jacket. However, there was a distinct yet understated element hinting at an eclectic lifestyle in her navy straw hat, with its complex panel of iridescent navy bugle beads framing two brightly-colored, pie-shaped inserts of what appeared to be some kind of embossed celluloid patterned to resemble feathers. And though her tone was just as sedate as her manner and dress, she spoke with the smooth, self-possessed confidence of the successful female thespian.

“Fred Gallup, I presume?”

Fred blinked, and his mouth fell open. “Lucy van der Hoeven?”

Her smile, which had been merely courteous, broadened into a downright beam, and her rigid posture relaxed into a more jovial pose. “Oh good, you remember me!”

Still unsure whether his eyes were being entirely trustworthy, even after the lady’s ringing confirmation of his suspicions, Fred blinked again. But when his vision cleared, the actress was still standing there. _And_ she was regarding him with that wonderfully warm gleam of hers, which he had seen several times before – though never directed at him. Suddenly realizing that he’d completely neglected the proper social niceties, he abruptly got to his feet, extended his hand and stammered, “Yes, I’m Fred Gallup – at your service. Is there something I can do for you?”

“I wished to meet you,” the actress replied matter-of-factly, giving his hand a brief but hearty shake that left him inwardly reeling as much as if she’d gently smoothed a stray hair off his brow. “I’ve been meaning to pay you a visit ever since I read your review of _No, No Nanette_.”

Still trying to recover his faculties and not quite knowing what to make of her statement, Fred coolly raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes – I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed what you had to say about the show. Since we started our run a few months ago, you’re the only reviewer who hasn’t gone completely mad for it.” She laughed and tossed her head, and Fred was assailed by a bewitching jasmine aroma. “I was beginning to think finding a kindred spirit was hopeless!”

Fred, who had been so close to regaining his bearings, lost them again. “You _liked_ my criticisms of the show?”

“They were right on the mark, I thought,” the actress said with quiet but real vehemence. “ _No, No Nanette_ is not only silly, but infuriating to independent-minded females everywhere.” She leaned closer and whispered, “If I were Nanette in real life, I’d tell Tom Trainor to go to hell and continue living it up on the shores of New Jersey!”

Once again, Fred found himself inhaling her intoxicating jasmine perfume – and struggling to keep his breathing level as his heart thumped even more crazily in his chest. No scent could have suited Lucy van der Hoeven better than jasmine; the bloom’s dizzying, head-spinning quality of being euphorically light yet darkly sensual captured her personality impeccably. It was a damn good thing his desk stood between them, because Fred was itching so badly to reach out and pull her even closer to him that he might just have succumbed to this dangerous temptation without a second thought.

However, although the reporter’s rational mind was in shambles, he somehow managed to hold onto his charm. Regarding the actress with a conspiratorial grin, he whispered back, “Then why did you take the role in the first place?”

Lucy shrugged. “A girl’s got to eat. And this show, more than any I’ve ever done before, has been a great meal ticket – especially in Des Moines! Ever since you wrote your review, the theater’s been packed every night.”

Fred nodded – every night, he did his darnedest to get to the box office as early as possible, lest he miss out on getting a good seat. Yet this was certainly not something he could tell her, now or ever. And try as he might, the reporter couldn’t think of anything else to say, even though Lucy’s expression clearly indicated she was pleased to stay and chat with him for as long as he would welcome her company. Fred would have loved to oblige, as he was both charmed and intrigued by her distaste for both _No, No Nanette_ and domesticity in general, but nothing came to mind except inane pleasantries and, after their furtive exchange, they had already passed that point.

And so the silence stretched between them, both their smiles faltering nervously at this increasingly awkward impasse. Unable to recover his wits, Fred was left with no other option than sending the actress on her way. But perhaps it was just as well. It was bad enough to want a woman he could never have for keeps; it would be ten times worse to make love to Lucy for one fleeting moment, and then spend the rest of his life knowing precisely what he was missing!

However, that same stubborn sense of principle that hadn’t allowed the reporter to overtly pursue Marian Paroo Hill also refused to countenance him letting Lucy van der Hoeven slip away so easily. So instead of bidding her a polite farewell, Fred found himself saying, “Well, Miss van der Hoeven, a man’s got to eat, too, and I’m just about finished up here for the day. Would you care to join me for dinner?”

Lucy’s eyes lit up, as if this was exactly what she’d wanted him to ask her, all along. “Why, I’d be delighted!”

Although her response was quite flattering, Fred had to repress a scowl as it suddenly hit home just how openly he’d been gawking at the actress since she showed up at his desk. He ought to have played things a whole lot cooler; instead of blurting out her name in captivated awe, he should have pretended not to know who she was at first. Because even as the reporter offered Miss van der Hoeven his arm – a gesture that was not strictly necessary, even under the circumstances – this _wasn’t_ a date. And even as Fred found himself pulling Lucy slightly but possessively closer and glaring at any of his colleagues who had the audacity to eye her lithe figure appreciatively as they made their way out of the building, he was firmly resolved that all they were going to do tonight was engage in a little friendly conversation over a bite to eat, and then he would send her on her way – foolish infatuation notwithstanding!

Fortunately, Lucy seemed oblivious to all the wolfish smiles aimed in their direction – or was merely pretending to be, at any rate – and began to chatter merrily to Fred about how she was enjoying her stay in Des Moines so far. This suited the reporter just fine, as it gave him the time he needed to marshal his wits and consider his next move. Because as enchanting and diverting as he found the conversation, Fred couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite on the level about the actress’s visit. As boldly and forthrightly as Lucy van der Hoeven sought out his company, there was something she wasn’t telling him. He could sense it – though he couldn’t quite articulate what exactly led him to draw such a conclusion in the first place. Even though desire had rendered him ridiculously addle-pated, he wasn’t a complete fool; his instincts for ferretting out the clandestine had been well-honed over the years, and the reporter had become a master at detecting when people were hiding the real story from him.

Trusting those instincts, Fred ultimately decided to take Lucy to his favorite restaurant, which he’d frequented since he first came to Des Moines. It was a small, unremarkable-looking establishment, but the food was surprisingly good and, given the reporter’s loyal patronage over the years, he’d forged a solid acquaintance with the owner. Thus left to his own devices in this informal “headquarters” of sorts, the reporter had gotten many reluctant interviewees to relax and spill the beans.

As was par for the course, the proprietor didn’t say a single word when the pair walked through the door, though he did raise an eyebrow when he saw Fred’s dining companion. Although the reporter understood Bill’s surprise – he’d rarely brought a woman here for interrogation, and he’d never once romanced a gal in this establishment – he shot a “mind your own business” frown in the man’s direction, and with a grin, the proprietor promptly turned his attention elsewhere.

Fortunately, Lucy was so absorbed in their conversation that she didn’t notice this little exchange. It wasn’t until at least five minutes after they’d been seated at Fred’s usual table in the corner that she talked herself out enough to take interest in their surroundings. “My, this is a charming little place!” she said happily as she surveyed the clean but worn – a more uncharitable soul would have called them shabby – surroundings. “Just the sort of restaurant I like to eat at the end of a long day of rehearsing.”

Once again, Fred had to repress a scowl even as he felt his heart warm even more toward the refreshingly unpretentious actress. How was it that when, for probably the first time ever, he was most decidedly _not_ trying to woo a woman, she was charmed by what he did, anyway? Every move he’d made, while an earnest display of his true personality, was also to demonstrate to Lucy his utter disinterest in impressing her. Her delight at finding herself at such an unromantic venue couldn’t be entirely genuine! After all, she _was_ a superb actress…

It was time to drop the charade. “Why did you seek me out in person, Miss van der Hoeven?” Fred asked coolly, cutting into their pleasantries. “Forgive me for being suspicious, but a leading lady of your caliber doesn’t often go to the trouble of looking up a small-time reporter just to pay compliments to his writing style. You could have just sent me a nice letter expressing your sentiments, as my readers generally do. So what is it that you want from me, really?”

Lucy blinked, and her smile faded. As awkward as Fred felt when her face crimsoned in what appeared to be an expression of earnest dismay, he stifled the urge to apologize for his bluntness and quietly watched the actress as she struggled to regain her bearings.

“Well,” she finally said, sounding vaguely amused even as she continued to blush, “you _do_ know how to pull the rug out from under a girl, don’t you, Mr. Gallup?”

He shrugged. “That’s a reporter for you.”

Lucy regarded him with an appraising look. “Indeed. And since turnabout is fair play, I might ask you the same question. Because I find it quite strange that a man who hated _No, No Nanette_ so much would go to all the trouble of attending nearly every single performance since we’ve been in town.” When Fred’s jaw dropped in utter shock, she simply laughed and went on, “Yes, you can sit here and pretend to be as cool as a cucumber, but I’ve noticed the way you’ve been staring at me from the front row, starting on opening night!”

Fred normally would have protested or at least blushed at this stunning turn of events; as cynical as he was, he never would have dreamed his feverish fantasies would come crashing down so spectacularly around him. But even in the midst of his humiliation, he was long past the point of growing defensive. Ever since his pride had been thoroughly – but deservedly – trounced by Harold Hill at River City’s freight depot, weariness had overcome abashment and, given how bleak his romantic prospects were, he couldn’t muster up the energy to care that he’d been caught in yet another compromising position.

So as unpalatable as the truth was, the reporter nevertheless admitted in a flat voice, “You’re a captivating woman, Lucy van der Hoeven. And I’m a lonely man. Watching you play Nanette is a bright spot in an otherwise monotonous existence. But rest assured I don’t want a thing from you.” However, when the actress eyed him skeptically, he felt a resurgence of the old sense of injustice that used to fire his blood whenever someone dared to call his gentility into question, and said with real irritation, “May I remind you that _you’re_ the one who ended up seeking me out, Miss van der Hoeven.”

“I did,” she bashfully acknowledged, even as her brilliant green eyes continued to gaze steadily into his. “Normally, I wouldn’t have been so presumptuous, but I have an irrepressible curious streak. And when I found out that the man who was staring at me every night was the exact same reporter who wrote that review for the _Des Moines Register and Leader_ , I just had to meet you.”

Fred’s stomach flip-flopped at this revelation; not only had Lucy noticed his presence, she’d actually done some behind-the-scenes sleuthing to find out who he was! While this did not necessarily indicate a mutual attraction on her part, the fact that she’d taken the time to discover his identity rather than have him banned from the theater indicated that perhaps he wasn’t doomed to drift along unnoticed in the world, after all. Emotions the reporter thought he’d managed to bury for good rose to his throat and congealed into a disconcerting lump there. But he swallowed it away and managed to ask, “Why?”

Lucy blinked again, and her beautiful eyes gleamed even more in the dingy light. “I was intrigued by two men in Des Moines – the fellow who watched my performance with such avid eyes night after night yet never came to the side door of the theater for so much as a handshake after the show, and the reporter who wrote the lovely but cutting review and likewise kept his distance. The first man was an unusual mixture of unassuming and passionate; the second was a striking blend of principled idealism and stark honesty.” She paused and smiled sweetly at him. “And when I found out that those two men were one and the same, I wasn’t about to let him slip through my fingers.”

Staggered, Fred could only gape at the actress. Although she had admitted a mutual attraction to him, he still wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. Now that both of them had completely laid out their cards on the table, there didn’t seem to be anything left but for him to suggest they find somewhere more private so they could get to know each other even better. At any rate, he wasn’t so crass as to suggest such a course of action at this still-early juncture, even if the way Lucy was looking at him indicated she certainly wouldn’t say no to such overtures. But they’d long passed the point where they could indulge in sly flirtation disguised as idle pleasantries.

Giving the beleaguered reporter an arch smile, Lucy suggested, “Why don’t you tell the man who’s been watching us with a barely repressed grin ever since the two of us walked in that we want something to eat. I can only speak for myself, but I’m famished!”

Suddenly realizing that he was starved as well, Fred likewise smiled and motioned for Bill to take their dinner order. It was the perfect interlude; from that moment on, the conversation flowed smoothly and easily between the reporter and actress. And because Lucy didn’t have a performance scheduled that evening, they had all the time in the world to linger over their meal together.

And linger they did. Having gotten over his initial discomfort, Fred spent the next several hours conversing freely and great length with Lucy about his exploits as a reporter, and in return, she told him of her life as an actress and burlesque dancer. Given the nature of her profession as entertainer, it was no surprise to Fred that Lucy was a charming, intelligent and captivating conversationalist. What did amaze him was that she seemed just as fascinated by what he had to say about his own experiences, and peppered him with questions so enthusiastically that he didn't immediately realize he’d told her far more about himself than he ever cared to reveal to any would-be lover.

When Fred finally settled their bill and escorted Lucy out of the restaurant, it was past midnight. But the conversation did not end; the reporter and actress continued chattering animatedly as they walked back to her hotel. Although Fred meant to say his goodnights when they reached the front entrance, he found himself accompanying Lucy right up to the door of her room. After all, these lodgings were in a rather rundown section of town and, given the lateness of the hour, it would be remiss of him not to ensure her safe arrival. Perhaps it was a bit presumptuous of him to chaperon her all the way to her threshold, but the actress didn’t bat an eye at his behavior, let alone protest it. And when they actually reached her door, Lucy fell silent and smiled expectantly at him, as if she was waiting for him to finally put politeness aside and make his move.

Fred’s stomach had been churning ever since they left the restaurant, a phenomenon he’d initially attributed to indigestion. But now, as he stared helplessly into Lucy’s inviting gaze, he could no longer deny that it was those all-too-familiar, intense pangs of desire that were unsettling his insides. Still, the reporter was determined not to fall prey to this dangerous temptation. At least, not until their second or third date. “I had a wonderful time tonight,” he said warmly – perhaps a little _too_ warmly, if the delighted gleam that entered her gaze was any indication. “I’d like to see you socially, as long as your show is town.”

It wasn’t quite an advance toward her bed, but it wasn’t necessarily a goodnight, either. Somehow, Fred couldn’t make his mouth form the word. All he could do was wait for Lucy to say something – anything would suffice to break the hold of her alluring eyes.

But when the actress simply continued to regard him with that beguiling smile of hers, his shoulders slumped and he sighed. He couldn’t fight it anymore. So without further hesitation, Fred pulled Lucy into his arms and covered her mouth with his. Even now, he entertained high-flying notions of retaining _some_ measure of restraint. But all the pent-up frustration and longing he’d been experiencing for the past several weeks came rushing out; instead of giving her an appropriately gentle, first-time, goodnight kiss, he kissed her hard and deep, crushing his body against hers and pressing her up against her door.

Although Lucy melted into his embrace right away, returning his kiss just as fiercely and moaning into his mouth as she pressed her lithe hips just as eagerly against his in return, Fred backed off a little – though he still kept his arms around her – and stammered breathless apologies for his forwardness when the two of them finally parted for air.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that – that is, not so quickly – we’ve only just met – you must think I’m the worst kind of scoundrel – ”

But Lucy only laughed and pressed a firm kiss to his lips until he fell silent again. “It’s about damn time you did that,” she said in gleeful relief. “For a moment, I thought _I_ was going to have make the first move!”

Despite how worldly-wise Fred prided himself on being, he could only goggle at her. Lucy laughed again as she reached up and smoothed a lock of hair back from his forehead. “You needn’t worry about offending my sensibilities,” she said kindly. “I’m no delicate flower, even if I play one onstage.” She laughed a third time, this time with an unmistakable note of cynicism in her tone. “At any rate, I’m long past the pretense of playing the blushing rose in real life. So it would be terribly hypocritical of me to condemn _you_ for wanting what every red-blooded man wants from a woman.”

“It’s not that,” Fred began, trying to explain. Although he found the actress’s bluntness refreshing – it was the rare woman who spoke so matter-of-factly about lovemaking – he couldn’t help being distressed by how little consideration she expected from him, and how much she was prepared to give in return. Although he was behaving like a cad at present, despite her verbal and unspoken assurances that she welcomed his advances, he didn’t want their first time together to be a furtive and frantic tumble in a squalid hotel room; it felt too much like every other slap-dash, hurry-up affair he’d ever had before. He wanted to give Lucy better than that; he wanted to show her that even though they’d just met, she meant more to him than that.

But before the reporter could say anything more, Lucy regarded him with an appraising smile. “It’s all right, Fred,” she reassured him. “I don’t want a Sir Galahad.”

To underscore her point, she pressed close to him again. Fred let out a strangled groan as her hips met his. “Then what _do_ you want, Lucy?” he asked in a strained voice.

The actress’s smile faded, and something achingly vulnerable entered her gaze. “You,” she said quietly. “Just you.”

At such a bald-faced invitation, Fred normally would have taken the lead. Indeed, his body was screaming at him to do just that. But something made him hesitate. As much as he wanted to end the conversation and tumble into bed with Lucy, he couldn’t bring himself to do it if it meant all he’d ever have is one night with her. But while _he_ wanted companionship, he knew she shied away from such commitment; for all her bold advances, the actress was as skittish as a bird. Although she was freely inviting Fred to make love to her body, she was keeping her heart carefully shrouded – or attempting to, anyway. Despite his complete clumsiness, he’d somehow managed to pierce her veil of cynicism; Lucy was looking at him with the same exact expression of unvarnished longing he’d often regarded her.

However, the reporter’s instincts told him it was far too soon for declarations of any kind, even if it seemed the actress was just as hopelessly head over heels for him as he was for her. Still, he had to do _something_ to indicate his ultimate intentions before he charged full steam ahead. It wouldn’t be honorable to make love to her under false pretenses. And if she spurned his advances and retreated into her shell… well, it was better to find out early if he was clinging to false hopes that there could be anything more between them.

Keeping his eyes trained on hers, Fred found Lucy’s hand and raised it to his lips. As he pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses against her fingers, palm and wrist, he continued to look at her, letting his gaze tell her everything he couldn’t yet say.

For a long moment, Lucy held his gaze. But just as Fred’s pulse started to quicken – perhaps his hopes weren’t so foolish, after all – the awe in her expression turned into apprehension, and she began to tremble. Fred’s heart sank; it was all happening just as he expected. Although he was sorely tempted to downplay the intensity of his stare with a light flirtation and devil-may-care smile, he didn’t say a word or even move when Lucy extricated her hand from his and turned away from him. Rummaging in her purse for her key, she then unlocked the door of her room and stepped over the threshold. As the lonely reporter watched the gorgeous actress walk out of his life for good, he had to repress the urge to pull her back into his arms. It really was better that things ended this way. The last thing he needed was yet another woman he couldn’t forget.

However, instead of slamming the door in his face, Lucy turned to face him with an arch, self-possessed smile. “Well, Fred,” she said in a throaty voice, “are you coming in, or aren’t you?”

It only took a split second for the reporter to overcome his shock at this turn of events; he bounded over the threshold and caught the actress in his arms. As his mouth covered hers, Lucy wound her arms around his neck, and almost immediately her warm lips parted beneath his, urging him to deepen his embrace. Long past the point of chivalrous demurral, Fred wholeheartedly obliged, pausing only to kick the door closed behind him before wrapping his arms around Lucy’s waist and pulling her body against his as his tongue explored the contours of her mouth.

Although the actress clearly knew what she was doing when it came to lovemaking, the reporter still couldn’t help being a bit surprised when she unabashedly unbuttoned his suit-coat and then his dress shirt. Once things progressed to the point of heavy petting, even the boldest of women tended to retreat into ladylike passivity, preferring to let him take the lead. But tonight, Fred actually had to struggle to keep up with Lucy, his own fingers feverishly racing to unfasten the abalone buttons of her dark-blue velvet walking suit as she began to unbuckle his belt.

Not that the actress’s brazen forwardness bothered the reporter. On the contrary – Lucy’s impatience to make love both warmed Fred’s heart and made him want her even more. She was desperate for him, or perhaps just desperate for this. Although it would sting an awful lot later if this was all she wanted from him, he’d denied himself physical pleasure for far too long, and right now, her sheer eagerness was more than enough for him to proceed full steam ahead. 

But once again, Fred almost spoiled the highly promising mood between them. Although his rational mind wisely counseled him to keep his damn mouth shut, his heart apparently couldn’t take such restriction. Even as he divested Lucy of her clothing as quickly as his trembling hands allowed, he whispered a steady stream of confessions of every heated fancy, desire and dream that had crossed his mind starting from the moment he first saw her – dangerous outpourings he promptly followed up with reassurances that while he’d be more than happy to keep her company tonight, tomorrow, for as long as she was in Des Moines (even in the throes of his besotted madness he at least had the good sense to leave _forever_ out of it!), he wasn’t asking her for anything more than she wanted to give him, and if she wanted him to stop or leave her alone, all she had to do was say the word…

Lucy burst into laughter and brought his rambling tongue to a halt with a long, deep kiss. “Good God!” she exclaimed, amused. “Do reporters never shut up?”

Though he was a bit stung, Fred valiantly masked his embarrassment. “Oh, I can do more with my mouth than just talk,” he heatedly assured her as he tossed the last of her undergarments aside and pulled her to lie down on the bed with him.

“Prove it,” she retorted just as hotly – but she had just barely finished saying the words when she let out a sharp cry of delight and melted into his arms as he did just that.

From then on, there was no talking. The reporter’s hands and mouth roamed freely over the actress’s naked curves as he showed her exactly what he could do. As Lucy moaned and writhed beneath him, Fred felt that gratifying sense of masculine triumph he always experienced whenever he pleased a beautiful woman – it was truly a comfort to know that despite being so foolishly, pathetically head over heels, he wasn’t a failure at _this_.

Yet Fred also felt a startling rush of tenderness toward Lucy, even as her challenge exacerbated his pride and spurred him to give her a rendezvous she’d never forget; tenderness coupled with another feeling he didn’t dare name even in the private recesses of his own mind, lest the words come tumbling out of his mouth. But it seeped through his kisses and caresses all the same; by the time he’d rolled the actress supine beneath him to make love to her in earnest, Lucy was gazing up at him as if he’d given her the moon, the stars and the sun – and despite her delight, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it all, or if she even wanted this much in the first place.

But the reporter chose to take the actress’s apprehensive amazement as a compliment to his prowess – or at least, he pretended he did, and gave her a huge grin. To his relief, she relaxed in his arms and smiled up at him in return. However, both their smiles were soon lost in a gasp as they subsequently came together, and Lucy’s countenance blazed with such warm, intense ardor as her eyes bored into Fred’s that the reporter had to bury his face in the crook of her neck to keep those three insidious words from escaping and ruining everything that, with a little patience and forbearance and time, he might actually be able to achieve.

But Fred couldn’t help reveling in what Lucy had just revealed to him, even though it was most likely an involuntary reaction on her part. Still, it was immensely heartening to know that it wasn’t just this she was desperate for – while he had always strove to leave a lover well-pleased, no woman had ever gazed at him _that_ wonderfully.

Yet there was also the actress’s cynicism to consider. Perhaps, in his desperation for her reciprocation of his feelings, Fred had read much more significance into her awed expression than was actually merited. As Lucy enthusiastically matched his frenzied pace, he couldn’t help wondering if any other man had ever made love to her – _really_ made love to her – and he also wondered if she’d given herself this warmly and generously to any other man. Because one thing was certain: Whether Lucy’s passion was driven by mere desire or something more (even in his refusal to hope for too much just yet, the reporter could not ignore the evidence that she liked him beyond mere physical attraction), she definitely knew how to please a man in the bedroom. And it wasn’t just the way she moved beneath him – though Fred would have found such adeptness intoxicating enough on its own – it was her bold confidence to do much more than simply make her hips rise and fall in passionate rhythm with his. Unlike most of his previous lovers, Lucy was not content to lie with her mouth gasping idly and her hands aimlessly clutching the sheets while he steadily coaxed her to climax; her fingers and lips explored every bit of him they could reach, searching for sensitive spots and pausing to linger in a prolonged caress, kiss or love-bite whenever he let out a particularly impassioned groan.

However, the reporter still couldn’t shake the nagging sense of foreboding that was gradually creeping up on him as the minutes passed. Somehow, he had managed to bring himself back from the brink not one but three times – it was far too long since he’d been with a woman, and she was so hot and tight and wet – but it was a battle he was steadily losing. Though Lucy had screamed long and loudly when he’d pleasured her with his hands and mouth, and though she was now moaning continuously in his arms, she had not let out such intense cries of ecstasy since they’d actually begun to make love.

So as much as he wanted to let himself completely go, Fred tried to find a way to slacken the pace of their lovemaking just enough to buy himself a few more brief but crucial minutes. Lifting his head from the crook of Lucy’s neck, he covered her parted mouth with his and kissed her as long and slowly and sweetly as he could manage under the circumstances.

But the actress was clearly not in the mood for such tenderness – she kissed him back so hard and hungrily that the reporter found himself thrusting even more furiously into her, heedless of anything but the way she looked and felt and sounded and tasted, the way she both sated his senses and made him want more, even after he was finished and could do nothing but lie gasping desperately for air in her arms.

At first, Fred was too dazed by his own euphoria to realize just what had happened. Of course, it was hard to fathom anything but a happy stupor as the woman he’d longed for like no other sighed contentedly, ran her fingers through his disheveled hair, and pressed soft kisses against his forehead. Even though he knew he hadn’t pleased Lucy as fully as he could and ought to have, she certainly wasn’t behaving as if anything was lacking!

And then it finally hit him. He’d been too careless. With every single one of his previous lovers, the reporter had always made sure to withdraw just before reaching the point of no return; when he insisted to his nosy-nellie mother and sisters back in Charleston that he didn’t want any children, he’d meant it. Even if he could have gotten away with refuting the scandalous claims of any former lover who tracked him down, his staunch sense of principle would never have allowed him to abandon his own child. And being a moderately well-known reporter, Fred Gallup was all too easy to find, should anyone from his past decide to come calling. Not that it mattered how off the beaten path he was; he knew from his many years in the business that even anonymous nobodies could eventually be located. It was just a matter of time and patience.

But now, for the first time since his disastrous initial tryst in college, he’d lost complete control of himself. And now, thanks to his recklessness, he could very well have knocked Lucy up! Although it wasn’t the worst fate for Fred to contemplate – in fact, there was something strangely appealing about the idea of her having his child – he was far more concerned about what such a turn of events might mean for the actress, as his blunder could potentially rob her of the very freedom he assured her he’d never try to take away.

A woman as shrewd and worldly-wise as Miss van der Hoeven had to have known that an unanticipated pregnancy would derail, if not outright wreck, her flourishing career. So why was she still clinging to him in the aftermath of this disaster, her thighs wrapped just as snugly around his hips as they’d been while he made love to her? She ought to have castigated him for his carelessness and pushed him away from her as soon as it happened! But Lucy didn’t so much as cringe from his continued embrace. Instead, she kissed him lightly on the cheek and moved her fingers down his back in soothing, steady strokes. “Is something the matter?” she asked kindly.

The apology burst out before Fred could stop it. “I didn’t mean for it to end like this,” he said sheepishly, pressing his lips against the slender line of her jaw in a series of fervent but rueful kisses. “If anything happens, I’ll take full responsibility in bearing my share of the burden.”

Lucy giggled, nestling even closer to him as his mouth continued to meander across her neck. “What on earth are you talking about, you silly man?”

Even though her tone was indulgent rather than exasperated, Fred was still too abashed to meet her gaze. Forcing his wandering mouth to stop doing the things that had gotten him into this trouble in the first place, he clarified, “I’m not the kind of fellow who would ever abandon a woman who was” – he paused, allowing himself to drop a gentle kiss on the hollow of her throat to steady his nerves – “in the family way.”

Lucy’s giggles turned into full-fledged laughter. “Oh Fred,” she said, sounding both flattered and amused, “that’s something I won’t ever have to worry about, no matter how careless you are!”

She did not elaborate further. Although Fred’s curiosity was sorely piqued as to how the actress could be so unconcerned about such prospects, it was much too soon to pry into such personal matters. He knew from the ringing certainty in her voice that she was telling the truth, and for now, that was good enough for him.

With surprising nimbleness, Lucy scooted out from under him, slipped into the nearby washroom, and closed the door before he could marshal the presence of mind to continue the conversation. Not being familiar enough with her intimate habits to predict how long she’d be occupied, Fred took advantage of her absence to locate his union suit, which had somehow ended up draped haphazardly over a lampshade clear across the room. After smoothing out the wrinkles, he pulled it on and slid back under the covers.

As the reporter lay there waiting for the actress to return, he was surprised and even a bit miffed to hear the bathtub running, as none of his previous paramours had put quite that much effort into their post-lovemaking ablutions. At least, they hadn’t done so while still in his presence! But as he pictured the actress’s slim curves wet with droplets of bathwater, her cheeks flushed and curls damp, desire soon trumped chagrin, and he was strongly tempted to join her – especially when he heard her dreamily humming a low, sultry tune that was as far from the cloyingly sentimental _Tea for Two_ as one could possibly get. However, Fred didn’t know if she’d be receptive to such a blatant intrusion on her privacy, and he wasn’t about to press his luck and frighten her off; there was such a thing as being _too_ much of an early bird to get the worm.

Although it had long been his favorite aphorism, Fred grimaced at the metaphor. After the surprisingly warm and passionate embrace they’d just shared, he was finding it too distasteful to think of his pursuit of Lucy in terms of predator and prey. He was simply a man in love, waiting for the woman he loved to return to him. And he was content to wait for as long as it took; the bed was surprisingly comfortable, and he soon drifted off to sleep.

The next thing the reporter knew, all the lights in the hotel room were blazing and Lucy was standing before him in a thin but billowy negligee.

“You’re still here,” she said in a flat voice – though her expression was clearly one of shock.

Still in a sleepy daze, Fred blinked to clear his head, and gave her a sleepy smile. “Where else would I be?” His smile broadened as alertness gradually sharpened his senses. “What kind of man could be so gutless as to slink away from a woman before the sun even came up?”

“You might be surprised,” Lucy said wryly. She continued to stand there, watching him. As the reporter struggled to find something to say to fill the awkward silence that fell between them, the actress let out that acerbic little laugh he was starting to loathe. “In fact, this is the first time I’ve ever come out of a hotel washroom to find that I still had company!”

Even as Fred’s heart constricted to hear that – had every man she’d ever slept with simply used and discarded her? – his stomach started churning with that unpleasant sense of chagrin again. Although Lucy was amazed by his continued presence in her bed, she wasn’t beaming to see him, so it appeared that he had indeed overstayed his welcome, after all. Though she was not quite so blunt as to tell him to leave, he couldn’t help being irked by her demeanor. Even the women who’d wanted nothing more than a single night of fun with him had the courtesy not to kick him unceremoniously out of bed when he’d settled in to spend the night afterward. This was something Fred had always done, even though on several occasions, he would much rather have left as soon as the deed was done. But he never did that, as it wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do. Although the reporter supposed that deep down, he’d known the actress wanted him gone from her room the moment he heard the faucet to the tub turn on; it must have been her discreet way of avoiding an awkward confrontation.

Figuring he might as well get his dismissal over with sooner rather than later, Fred sat up and tossed the covers aside, grateful that he’d at least had the foresight to cover up earlier so he wasn’t completely in the altogether as he searched for the rest of his clothing beneath her unrelenting gaze. He meant to respond to Lucy’s impassive demeanor with a similar tone of cool detachment, but he was too out of sorts to keep the irritation and disappointment out of his voice as he said, “I’ll gather my things and be out of your way, then.”

At that, Lucy’s eyes widened even more, and she continued to stare at him with a flummoxed expression, as if she was at a complete loss as to what to do next. But then a smile slowly spread across her face – the same lovely, enchanting beam she’d regarded him with when she invited him into her room in the first place – and she said coyly, but with an undertone of real tenderness, “What kind of woman could be so heartless as to toss a man out of her bed before the sun came up?”

Although Fred perked right up at this confirmation that she still welcomed his company, he was once again perplexed when she slipped gingerly beneath the sheets and laid with her back to him. Perhaps she was just being polite, after all? But then again, perhaps her skittish reserve stemmed more from disappointing experiences with other men rather than distaste at his continued presence. Refusing to let her hesitancy cow him any longer, the reporter wrapped his arms around the actress and brought her to spoon against him. “You know, when I heard the tub filling up, I strongly considered joining you,” he whispered, burying his face in her hair and kissing the nape of her neck.

Lucy nestled closer to him. “Oh?” she said, sounding both pleased and surprised. “Why didn’t you?”

Fred’s mouth found the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, and he kissed her a little harder. “Should I have?” he asked provocatively.

Her breath started coming in small gasps as his mouth continued to tease her, and her hands found his arms and clasped them to her as if she never wanted him to let her go. “ _Yes_ … ”

Although the actress’s reply was more likely to be in response to what he was presently doing rather than an affirmative to his question, Fred couldn’t help chuckling at her enthusiasm. “I’ll certainly keep that in mind when you’re taking a bath in the future,” he promised in between love-bites. His fingers found their way to the soft, still-damp curls between her thighs, and as she parted her legs to welcome his advances he slipped one and then two fingers inside her, determined to pleasure her until she cried out again. Though her eyes remained closed the entire time he caressed her, his gaze remained riveted to her increasingly elated countenance as he coaxed her to climax. Even if Lucy van der Hoeven might be yet another all-too-brief chapter in his wretched love life, and even if collecting such painstaking memories of the way she looked, sounded, felt and tasted would only torment him all the more later, Fred had dreamed of the actress for too many long, lonely nights to refrain from intently observing every heated moment he had the privilege of sharing with her.

When Lucy’s breathing slowed to normal and her eyelids fluttered open, Fred still refused to look away, even as he steeled himself for the probability that she would immediately avert her eyes from the raw emotion of his gaze. But to his amazement, she beamed brilliantly at him and murmured in the sweetest haze of afterglow he’d ever heard, “You _are_ just as remarkable a man as I always suspected… you’re one in a million.”

Although this did wonders not just to bolster the reporter’s masculine pride, but also his hopes for the future, he thought it best to keep things light at this still-early juncture, and teased, “Do you say that to all the men who make love to you?”

He expected the actress to laugh this remark off, or perhaps even fire back a teasing rejoinder about the vastness of _his_ previous experience. However, to his dismay, she looked a bit hurt – or perhaps just annoyed – as she coolly responded, “I’m not the type of girl to give such glowing compliments where they aren’t warranted.”

Fred immediately opened his mouth to apologize, but Lucy sighed and rolled her eyes before he even got the words out. Snapping his mouth shut, he scrambled to think of what he could possibly say to atone for his latest gaffe. Though he could be awfully persuasive, and though he’d always prided himself on his ability to direct any conversation to his desired outcome, he was not a smooth talker at heart. He employed delicacy and tact only as a roundabout way to get answers; complete restraint was not something he was good at. As a reporter, he specialized in ferreting out the truth from reluctant interviewees while remaining cool as a cucumber no matter how loaded with tension the atmosphere became. He had few qualms about ruffling feathers or even shattering carefully constructed self-delusions when the only thing he’d been emotionally invested in was uncovering the truth of a situation. Now that he cared about Lucy’s happiness first and foremost, he was in as precarious a position as a tightrope walker working without a net – he’d lose everything if he wasn’t careful.

Once again, Fred decided there was nothing he could do but lay it all on the line, and let the chips fall where they may. “I’m really nothing special, Lucy,” he said not sullenly, but matter-of-factly. “You’ll have to forgive my cynicism, but I find it awfully hard to believe that I’m the best lover you’ve ever had.”

Lucy looked appraisingly at him for a moment before replying. “Not that it’s really any of your business,” she said in a prim voice that he would have found thoroughly endearing if he wasn’t so frustrated about botching what could have been a beautiful moment between them, “but despite how boldly I behaved with you tonight, I’ve gone to bed with fewer men than I have fingers to count them on.”

Fred was stunned – for a woman who claimed to disdain casual affairs, she certainly had the skill and the confidence of the most seasoned of lovers. “But you said you were long past playing the blushing rose!”

Lucy smirked. “Does a woman have to have more lovers than she can count in order to know how to please a man?” Her smile faded. “Men proposition me all the time, and I turn them down,” she said not boastfully, but matter-of-factly. “If you had bothered to show up backstage after one of my performances, you might have heard all the other actors referring to me as the ‘Virgin Queen.’ Oh, yes,” she said at the reporter’s raised eyebrow, “they call me that all the time. The men in particular think it’s a great joke – my first role with this troupe was Queen Elizabeth, and that’s when it started.”

Lucy scowled. “The man who played Robert Dudley opposite me refused to address me as anything but that after I slapped him for trying to kiss me _outside_ of rehearsal – he was drunk and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’s gone from the troupe now, thank heavens, but his nickname for me stuck, and while I’m not exactly fond of it, I tolerate it because it makes my male co-stars less inclined to argue when they want to take the romance from onstage into real life.” She sighed irritably. “They really ought to know better! Over the course of my career, I’ve seen too many love affairs not only ruin shows but splinter entire acting companies when the fires of passion inevitably burn out. So while I may play at being in love with a man during a scene, I do not socialize with him after hours. The one rule I live by,” she passionately summed up, “is that the drama backstage should never exceed that of the play!”

Though her voice was low and her face close to his, the actress was just as captivating as she was when grandly delivering a monologue to a packed house. While Fred had been in love before, actually engaging in intimate pillow talk with a woman he loved was a new and uncertain arena for him, and he hardly knew how much to trust in what Lucy said to him in the heat of the moment. However, he was far too experienced in eliciting such heartfelt confessions for his own sense of doubt to convince him that she was telling him anything but the best truth she knew. “What about men who approach you outside of the theater?” he asked, too curious to refrain from prying further. “Surely, an actress as talented as you has more than a few admirers.”

Lucy vehemently shook her head. “Those kinds of men want only one thing from an actress, and once they’ve gotten it, they vanish. It only took having a few of those affairs to get tired of giving without getting much of anything in return,” she said sourly. “Oh sure, they’d flatter me by paying compliments to my beauty and talent, buy me little trinkets and baubles, and maybe even go so far as to treat me to a nice dinner to get into my good graces. But once we got back to the hotel it was in, out, gone.” She let out that acerbic little laugh of hers again, and this time, the reporter did not begrudge her for it. “Sometimes it was over so fast I wondered if anything had actually happened, or if I merely had a vivid but lackluster daydream.” The actress paused, and her expression softened. “But _you_ … you took your time. You cared just as much about my pleasure as you did yours.” She paused again, before confessing in a nearly inaudible whisper, “I’d forgotten what that felt like.”

Fred nodded sympathetically as her statement confirmed what he’d slowly started to surmise as she told him all this – Lucy’s cynicism did not result so much from the artless embraces of disinterested cads as it did from the heartbreak of a romance gone sour. Her warm and demonstrative embrace proved her to be a woman who was capable of loving very deeply even as she tried to maintain a veneer of detachment from her own longing. Although the actress had told him a great deal about herself over the course of the evening, she had only talked about her career. She hadn’t revealed so much as the smallest scrap of information about her childhood or her family or even the name of the town she grew up in. And she certainly hadn’t revealed what momentous event or epiphany had given her the absolute surety that she was in no danger of falling pregnant no matter how often he made love to her! Her accent was impeccably “big city” sophisticate – possibly she was from New York or Chicago? – but during their more heated and unguarded moments together, where it was all but impossible to maintain such flawless façades, he’d heard a definite note of the warm, down-home twang of a doe-eyed farm girl from the lower Midwest. Lucy van der Hoeven was a fascinating enigma, and it would take all of Fred’s deft persistence to convince her to trust him enough to open up a bit more, let alone consider a permanent arrangement with him.

While he dearly wanted to find out what had happened to make Lucy so skittish, and to assuage her pain in any way he could, now wasn’t the time to pursue such delicate topics. Instead, the reporter softly asked the woman he’d fallen irrevocably head over heels for, “After taking such scrupulous care to avoid the advances of men, what made you come after me?”

Lucy lowered her eyes from his gentle but steady gaze. “You _didn’t_ come after me,” she said shyly. But when she looked up again, her expression was starkly unabashed. “You’re the first man in a very long time who’s wanted me without wanting anything from me.”

Fred had to bite his tongue so he wouldn’t blurt out that someday, he wanted everything from her, body, heart and soul – and that he would gladly give her everything in return. It was much too soon for such barefaced overtures, even for the early bird. And as he had eventually fallen out of love with each of the women he’d carried a real torch for, he knew it was prudent to be patient; he refused to make any promises he wouldn’t be thoroughly delighted to keep. So even though his heart was mutinously urging him to seal the deal as quickly as he could possibly arrange it before the love of his life slipped through his fingers forever, the reporter gave the actress a fond but flirtatious smile, and remarked, “Well then, it’s a good thing I followed my instincts and stayed away! If I had bothered to show up backstage after one of your performances, I take it you would have turned me down?”

“Of course!” Lucy confirmed with an impish smile. But then her expression softened. “Still, I would have had a very hard time saying no. In fact, I’m not entirely sure that I wouldn’t have had second thoughts and gone after you later – especially after your review came out.”

Exhilarated by her declaration, Fred couldn’t hold back any longer. “Of all the women I’ve ever gone to bed with,” he said in a rush of ardent confession, “you’re the first woman I’ve ever made love to without picturing someone else in the back of my mind.”

Fortunately, discretion hadn’t entirely abandoned him, and he was able to refrain from mentioning that his previous lovers far outnumbered the fingers and toes he had to count them on. However, there was more he wanted to say to her – much more – but before he could get out another word, Lucy raised her head and hushed him with a deep and thorough kiss that left him gasping for more, to hell with how tired he was. But before he could take action, the actress nudged him off her and rolled him onto his back so she could straddle him. With a delightfully wicked gleam in her eye, she informed him, “You’ve given me more than enough for one night, Fred – it’s my turn to give something to you.”

Before Fred could object – he meant to make love to Lucy, even if exhaustion forced him to collapse into slumber halfway through – she lay down on top of him, her warm, eager mouth immediately finding the hollow of his throat. When he let out a strangled groan of pleasure and moaned her name, she gave a throaty laugh and continued pressing long, languid kisses down the line of his chest and stomach before veering slightly off-track to caress the surprisingly sensitive skin on his inner thighs. As much as he wanted to take control and make love to Lucy a second time, he couldn’t bring himself to offer so much as a token protest at the way her clever tongue teased out little pleasure spots he’d never even known existed. By the time she finally took him in her mouth, he was so far gone that he merely wound his fingers in her dark curls and moaned her name as she steadily and sweetly coaxed him to climax.

When she was finished, the reporter was utterly spent. Lucy lifted her head from his lap, looking both pleased and shy as her eyes met his. Hoping to divert her before she could dart off to the washroom for another long sojourn in the tub, Fred blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Is your name actually Lucy van der Hoeven?”

The actress froze, and for a moment she looked pensive, as if she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to say more to him – much more – or run far, far away. “Half of it is real,” she finally replied with a coy smile.

As to which half, she didn’t reveal. But there would be time to find out later. Too exhausted to continue the conversation but not ready to surrender to his fatigue just yet, Fred pulled Lucy to spoon with him again and kissed her hair, breathing in the bewitching jasmine scent of her damp, dark curls. As she relaxed in his arms, he tapered off the intensity of his kissing until his lips were simply resting on the nape of her neck. _Patience_ , the reporter reminded himself. Lucy would still be there tomorrow morning, as this was her hotel room, after all. Nevertheless, he tightened his arms possessively around her – and his heart did an enormous backflip in his chest when she sighed happily and nuzzled even closer to him in return.

“Goodnight, Lucy van der Hoeven,” Fred whispered, wishing for a much better endearment than that silly sobriquet as he drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anachronism alert for musical theater buffs: I couldn’t resist incorporating the musical, “No, No Nanette,” which wasn’t actually written until 1924. But the theme of the musical (single girl who is in love with her beau but reticent to settle down just yet) fit Lucy’s character too well not to draw the comparison.


	3. Nice Work If You Can Get It

_Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes…_  
 _Love never made a fool of you – you used to be too wise._  
 _~Sid, The Pajama Game_

XXX

The first thing Fred noticed once he came out of his deep, dreamless haze was that Lucy had turned toward him sometime during the night. And she was sleeping with such a sweet smile of contentment that he was sorely tempted to cover those gorgeous heart-shaped lips with light, teasing kisses until they parted beneath his and she opened herself to him again. But her expression was so smooth and untroubled that he couldn’t bear to disturb her slumber, so he simply continued to watch her.

Normally, the reporter never woke up with a woman still in his arms. Hell, he’d never fallen asleep holding a woman this close! After all, gentility only went so far – any pretense of continued longing after the deed was done was crueler than circumspection in Fred’s opinion, as it had the potential to lead a lady on. It was a fine line to walk, maintaining the proper decorum in the aftermath of passion, but Fred made it a point of pride never to break a woman’s heart, and in return, his heart had never been broken.

Never been broken by any of the women he’d ever gone to bed with, that is.

But Fred was feeling far too cheerful to brood about the ones who got away. Not when he’d just gotten the best night’s sleep he could ever remember having in his entire adult life. And not when the first thing he’d seen when he opened his eyes was the woman he’d wanted like no other sleeping just as contentedly in his embrace. After watching other men win the hearts of the gals he’d fancied, he’d finally found a female who wanted him – wanted him so badly that she did the lion’s share of pursuing when he refused to put himself on the line. And from the way the actress was snuggled up against him even after the long and heated night they’d already shared together, she _still_ wanted him.

For the moment, anyway.

Pushing aside those bothersome pangs of foreboding, Fred focused instead on the bewitching curve of Lucy’s shoulder. Although the light that filtered through the dirty slats of the cracked blinds was dull and gray, indicating overcast skies outside, her ivory skin gleamed becomingly in the semidarkness. Unable to hold back any longer, the reporter pressed a warm kiss to her bare shoulder. At that, she stirred a little in her sleep. As he felt her warmth shift against him, he grew hard against her thigh.

Lucy’s eyes fluttered open, and her smile broadened when her bleary gaze met his hungry one. “Well, good morning to you, too,” she said, her voice groggy but approving.

That was all Fred needed to hear – his mouth immediately found the crook of her neck, and he nipped at a few choice spots that had driven her wild the night before. Letting out a sharp moan of delight, Lucy parted her legs and notched them firmly around his hips as he rolled her beneath him. Given how swiftly they’d gone from his mouth kissing her shoulder to his erection pressing against her entrance, he was stunned to feel how wet she was already. With a groan, he slipped easily inside her. Lucy moaned again and arched her head back, offering up even more of her neck to his eager mouth. As he obliged her unspoken entreaty to continue what he was doing, her arms wound around him and pulled his body tightly against hers, her fingers twining in his hair as they moved together.

“Oh Lucy… ” he breathed in between love-bites, the words tumbling out heedlessly as he made love to her. “I want you just like this, all day, every day, as many times as we can possibly get away with while you’re in town… ” The reporter was very careful to tack on this qualifier, for even in the midst of paradise, he must be extremely careful not to lose himself completely. Not yet…

Lucy let out an exasperated laugh and swatted him lightly on the back of his head. “Shush!” she admonished. Regarding him with a playful gleam in her eyes, she archly added, “There are _much_ better things your mouth could be doing than talking – ”

Her statement abruptly ended in a loud moan as Fred took heed and lowered his lips to her throat once more.

Although he turned his energies to making love to the actress with all the tenderness and skill he could muster, hoping that what he couldn’t yet say to her in words would be conveyed in his actions, he found himself finishing much too soon. He still hadn’t been able to bring her to climax the way he could when he was simply pleasuring her with his fingers and tongue, and this irked him. But he must have passed muster, because Lucy made absolutely no pretense of wanting him to remain in bed afterward, tugging him to spoon with her as soon as he withdrew to lie by her side. His exhilaration quickly giving way to exhaustion, Fred closed his eyes and dozed off before any further qualms about whether he was overcrowding the actress had a chance to emerge.

When the reporter woke up again, the first thing he caught sight of was the clock on the end table. It was nearly eleven. Unsurprisingly, Lucy was still fast asleep – given the late hours demanded by her career, she wasn’t likely to be an early riser. But as tempted as Fred was to stay in bed with the actress right up until she had to be at the theater for tonight’s performance – or perhaps draw a nice bath and pass a long, lazy afternoon in the tub with her – it seemed too decadent an idea to seriously consider. They’d only just begun seeing each other, and he was going to overstay his welcome if he wasn’t careful. Besides, he needed to put in an appearance at the office for at least a few hours.

But once again, Lucy’s shoulder gleamed invitingly in the light. Leaning in to plant a kiss on it, Fred caught himself and refrained at the last second – if he started that now, who knew when he’d manage to get out of bed!

Instead, the reporter slid out from under the covers, quietly gathered his clothing, and made brief use of the washroom. Once he’d made himself presentable, he approached the bed again and bent over until his lips were next to the actress’s ear. “Lucy?” he whispered.

“Hrrmm?” she mumbled groggily, her eyes still squeezed shut.

He smiled at her incoherence. “I’m leaving now.”

At that, her eyes bolted open, and once they focused on him, she groaned wearily and put her hand to her head. “What time is it?”

Fred’s smile broadened. “It’s eleven thirty. I’ve got to go into the office for awhile. But I’ll be waiting for you at the stage door tonight – I’d like to take you out for dinner.” For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he’d been too bold in assuming she’d want to see him again so soon. “Same restaurant all right with you?” he added with a devil-may-care shrug, as if it didn’t matter much to him whether she said _yes_ or not.

For a moment, Lucy regarded him with both awe and confusion, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. Her dark curls were a tangled mess and the rumpled sheets were tucked haphazardly around her lithe curves – there was something so achingly desolate and vulnerable and _longing_ about her that the reporter was sorely tempted to risk overstaying his welcome, after all.

But before he could sit down on the bed and take her in his arms, she smirked and let out that gratingly acerbic little laugh of hers, and the spell was broken. “Wherever you want to take me is perfectly fine, I’m sure,” she said with a nonchalant shrug that mirrored his. “After all, you know Des Moines far better than I do.”

Although Fred’s heart constricted unpleasantly at her blasé acceptance of his overtures and his masculine pride urged him to bid her a coolly polite farewell, he just couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving her that way. “I’ll be counting down the minutes until I see you tonight,” he said with real feeling.

Once again, the reporter had somehow managed to pierce the world-weary actress’s cynicism with his unvarnished earnestness – her eyes widened, and she gaped at him. And then, to _his_ surprise, she started to smile, as if she couldn’t help herself. Not her showy “Nanette” grin, but a beam of sincere delight.

Feeling much lighter in spirit, Fred smiled warmly at the woman who’d so thoroughly captured his heart. “Until tonight,” he reiterated, before letting himself out the door.

XXX

Although reporters never kept regular hours and it was a Saturday, Fred received many knowing grins from his colleagues when he walked into the office shortly past noon. However, while they had all seen him leave with Lucy yesterday evening, no one attempted to corner him for a jocular interrogation as to the actress’s adeptness beneath the sheets; it was too well-known among them all that he staunchly refused to kiss and tell.

So outside of having to weather the usual jovial greetings and amiable but empty small talk, Fred was left to his own devices, which suited him just fine. On Saturdays, he liked to spend a quiet several hours at his desk brainstorming new story ideas, mapping out his schedule for the upcoming week, and doing as much background research as he possibly could on the subject he was going to write about and the people he was planning to interview. This legwork was crucial to his success as a reporter, and though work was the last thing Fred wanted to think about after the wonderful night _and_ morning he’d just had with Lucy, he refused to leave the office until he’d done his due diligence. Mr. Bowles had been giving him the fisheye lately because while the reporter been out and about these past few weeks, he didn’t have as much article output to show for his absences from the office as he usually did.

Fortunately, the legwork the reporter needed to complete beforehand had grown much less labor-intensive ever since he’d been assigned to writing frivolous puffery. As the calendar was starting to creep toward the middle of June and spring was gradually giving way to summer in earnest, there was a plethora of patriotic Independence Day-related events coming up for him to cover. So Fred filled his calendar (making sure to leave plenty of time for seeing Lucy), compiled a “quotes to get” list for each occasion, and filed everything in his satchel for future reference. Gone were the long Saturdays of treks to the library for exhaustive research into dense subject matter and furtive meetings with carefully cultivated contacts he could convince to help him blow the lid off a scandal in the name of the public good. But for once, he didn’t miss the arduous but rewarding grind – his mind kept wandering back to Lucy, recalling every heated moment they’d shared previously and anticipating all the ways he was going to make love to her when he saw her again.

But that wasn’t all that was on the reporter’s mind. As addled as he was by the physical delights he’d experienced with Lucy, Fred knew he needed to think a lot further ahead than tonight if he wanted a real future with her. She would only be in town a short while, so he had a limited amount time to come up with a practical plan for building a life with her. Unfortunately, the solution wasn’t as simple as his proposing to her once her affection for him bloomed into full-fledged love – if it ever did. Even if she did fall just as head over heels for him as he had for her, would he be enough for her to give up her exciting career? The reporter might have been able to get the actress a more stationary job through the theater contacts he’d amassed over the past few months, but it wasn’t likely she’d want to take it. Lucy had told him last night during dinner that she relished being part of an itinerant theater troupe because she got to see the country. Someday, she hoped to tour in troupes all over Europe, as well. Just as he couldn’t stomach giving up the big city to be a store clerk in poky old Charleston to make Bess happy, he couldn’t ask Lucy to sacrifice her dreams of traveling the world in favor of staying in one place to grow old with him.

But maybe _he_ could find a way to travel with Lucy. As the actress told him all about her adventures on the road, the reporter had felt more than a few pangs of jealousy at the broad scope of travel her profession afforded – he only ever got to traverse miles and miles of sparse Iowan farmland as he rode the rails from town to town in pursuit of his stories. So maybe if he played his cards right, he could get himself a job that allowed him greater range in where he could roam.

However, Fred would not be able to bring this plan to fruition if he was fired for indolence. He had to get back into his boss’s good graces immediately. Which was why even though he’d finished his legwork, he was going to stay in the office and get a head start on crafting some preliminary copy for his stories. Though he certainly wouldn’t miss hearing the grating _Tea for Two_ for the umpteenth time, it was the first show he’d skipped since opening night, and he felt oddly wistful about missing Lucy’s performance. He’d initially considered sending the theater a large bouquet of red roses, to be placed in Lucy’s dressing room before she arrived later this afternoon, but ultimately dismissed it as too extravagant a gesture. Such bombastic demonstrations were the province of Harold Hill, and anything that spellbinding cymbal salesman would do – as Mayor George Shinn of River City had so eloquently dubbed the charlatan-turned-bandleader – Fred Gallup would do the opposite! Though he wouldn’t forgo flowers entirely; showing up at the stage door with a single rose he could deliver to Lucy in person would be a far more elegant and unassuming way to express his regard.

As Fred feverishly churned out as much copy as he possibly could beforehand, he was gratified to see Mr. Bowles shoot approving glances in his direction each time he strode out of his office. When the reporter finally ran out of steam, he checked his pocket watch and was chagrinned to see that it was barely four o’clock. Lucy probably hadn’t even left her hotel room yet! It was much too early to go out and buy a rose, as he didn’t want it to be wilted by the time he presented it to her. Perhaps he should stop by Bill’s place for an early dinner, as it would be at least six more hours before he took Lucy out to eat. And given that he’d skipped lunch, he was famished.

But first, the reporter had to do one more thing before he left the office. Given that he was the only male in this generation of his family, his sensible grandmother had decided to bequeath her antique pearl-and-emerald engagement ring to him, so as to prevent infighting among his three sisters and seven female cousins over who got to inherit such an important heirloom. However, his less-sensible mother had thrown a fit at the idea of her unmarried and childless son possessing such a valuable piece of jewelry, as she feared he would be seduced by his city friends to pawn it for some hedonistic pleasure. Although Fred was often irritated by his mother’s complete lack of understanding of not just his pastimes but his character, it wasn’t worth the aggravation to fight her in this matter. So he came up with a compromise they could both live with – he would not take possession of the ring until he got engaged, and in the interim, his sister Fanny would hold it for him. Out of all his sisters, Fanny was his favorite, and out of all the women Fred had ever been connected to as family, friends or lovers, she was the only female he could trust not to deceive or disappoint him.

Although it was still much too early to predict where his relationship with Lucy would lead, the reporter was far more optimistic about his prospects of a successful courtship than he had ever been with Marian or even Bess. And should he reach the point of proposing, he was going to need that ring to show Lucy van der Hoeven that he meant business. So even though it was late on a Saturday afternoon and he wasn’t going to be able to mail anything out until Monday morning, Fred wrote a letter to Fanny.

XXX

Although Fred knew it would probably take at least a half hour after the final curtain fell for Lucy to be ready to meet him, he made sure he was waiting outside the stage door at nine thirty sharp. He carried a single red rose wrapped in cellophane in his left hand, which he concealed behind his back so he wouldn’t attract too much attention from the actors and stagehands as they streamed out of the building. He also didn’t wish to compete with the small but boisterous crowd of well-wishers that had begun to congregate in the area as the theater emptied out.

To the reporter’s surprise and delight, Lucy made her appearance at a quarter to ten – only fifteen minutes after he’d arrived. Fred’s heart did a somersault and his pulse began to race the moment the stage door opened and the actress came into view, but he remained staunchly in place as her star-struck admirers bustled over to meet her. While he felt a startlingly strong inclination to rush right to her side before any of them got there – similar to the ostentatious way Professor Hill always pulled Marian close after a concert, lest they be separated by the overeager hordes seeking his attention – he wasn’t about to cause a scene by acting like a hotheaded schoolboy attempting to stave off rivals for his gal’s affections. Such grandstanding behavior might have been acceptable for a larger-than-life bandleader, but it went completely against his instincts as a reporter. Fred’s way was to observe things quietly in the background rather than make himself the center of attention – no matter what it cost him.

Not that there was presently any need for such unreserved displays; given how wary the actress was of would-be suitors, it wasn’t likely that he was going to lose her to one of her adoring fans. As Fred watched her, any irrational apprehensions he might have been nursing along those lines dissipated in the face of sheer admiration for her adept handling of one of the more tiresome aspects of celebrity: Lucy was a marvel at moving graciously but briskly through a boisterous crowd, able to make small talk and even sign autographs without getting pulled into a long, drawn out tête-à-tête with any one person.

And perhaps it was a good thing he wasn’t the only one waiting for her, as it would give him time to recover his composure and formulate a well-phrased greeting. Although he should have been long past such clumsy awkwardness at this point, Fred felt just as tongue-tied as when the actress first showed up at his office. Lucy looked too ravishing for words – she was wearing yet another fetching velvet walking suit with abalone buttons up the skirt, except tonight the dress was wine red trimmed with crimson twill tape instead of dark blue trimmed with navy. However, the same eclectic navy straw hat was perched on top of her dusky curls, though it did not clash with her ensemble, as the multicolored “feathers” had red accents in them.

But even when, at long last, Lucy’s sweeping gaze found his and she strode right over to him with a warm smile, all the besotted reporter could do was hold up his single, paltry rose and grin widely in return. Yet it did not escape his notice just how much her countenance brightened with astonished elation the moment their eyes met, as if she hadn’t expected him to actually show up at the stage door, even after he told her he would. When Lucy took his rose with a delighted laugh and threw her arms around him, clearly not caring how many people still lingered in the alleyway, Fred could have flown to the moon and back again.

“You weren’t in the front row tonight – that’s a first,” the actress teased. Though her tone was lighthearted, there was a note of real wistfulness in it.

Fred finally found his voice. “Unfortunately, I had to work late,” he said ruefully. Moving his mouth close to her ear so even the most gossip-greedy bystander wouldn’t be able to discern his words, he added in a heated whisper, “But for the rest of the night, I’m yours… all yours.”

Lucy giggled and nestled even closer to him, plainly approving of what he had in mind even as she coquettishly demurred, “Well… if you’re hoping for a repeat performance of last night’s show, you’ll have to find me something to eat first. I’m famished!”

So without further ado, the reporter and the actress went to Bill’s for dinner. Fred was delighted to find that not only was his anticipation just as strong as it had been the previous evening, the conversation flowed just as effortlessly between them. In fact, he would have to say he felt even more at ease with Lucy than he did the first night they were together. Perhaps it was because tonight, he wasn’t indulging in any self-sacrificing, high-flying pretense about where they were going to end up going after they finished their meal. While they ate and talked at a leisurely pace, the reporter and the actress departed from the restaurant a full hour earlier than they had the night before, and walked straight to the hotel.

Although Fred had been anticipating this moment all afternoon, painstakingly considering what he wanted to do and say to Lucy to intensify her desire and move her heart without frightening her off, all coherent thought flew out of his head as soon as he’d closed the door to her room behind them. Yet it wasn’t him who made the first move: As he groped for a light switch in the darkness, the actress pulled him to her for a hard, hungry kiss, and before he knew it, she was halfway undressed beneath his eager fingers. The reporter just couldn’t help himself; he’d spent all day thinking about making love to Lucy, and moved purely out of instinct as he whisked her over to the still-unmade bed, threw the last of her undergarments aside, and ran his hands feverishly over her naked curves as he buried his head in her lap. If Lucy was alarmed by his boldness, she didn’t show it. She was with him every step of the way, pulling him down into a kneeling position as she tumbled backward onto the mattress, spreading her legs wider even as he feverishly parted them, and weaving her fingers into his hair as he tasted her. She writhed and moaned so beautifully beneath his ministrations that Fred wanted to take her right away, but he made himself wait until he had brought her to climax one, two and then three times until finally, after what seemed like hours of exquisite prelude, he stood up on shaky legs and covered her trembling body with his.

As their bodies met from their mouths to the tips of their toes, Lucy let out a delicious moan and wrapped her legs around his hips. Enveloped by her warmth, Fred let out a long, low groan and, lowering his hand between them, positioned himself to enter her at last. However, the actress apparently had other ideas. Grasping his hand and moving it out of the way, she rolled him onto his side with a sudden burst of strength that was surprising for such a small-framed woman. As the reporter attempted to regain both his breath and his bearings, Lucy pushed him onto his back and mounted him.

He would have protested, but her panting mouth descended over his for a long, sweet kiss. “Oh Fred,” she gasped, “you’ve done so much for me, it’s your turn now…” Covering his mouth with hers, the actress kissed him deeply as she set a pace that, while tantalizing, was far more frenzied than he wanted to go – at least, until he’d heard her scream with ecstasy just one more time. He was so hot for Lucy that he was going to come much too quickly for that, and he wanted their lovemaking to be just as much about her pleasure, even as she insisted on making it solely about his. The reporter could have stopped her, of course, as he was still the stronger of the two despite having been knocked temporarily off balance by her skillful maneuver. But once again, Fred’s baser instincts trumped his rational mind. Helpless beneath Lucy’s wet kisses, bold caresses and confident thrusts, he grasped her by the hips and pulled her even closer, driving deeper and deeper into her as he completely succumbed to the selfish and heedless inclinations of his carnal urges. Yet even as he ravenously devoured every bit of what she gave him, Lucy cried out and clung to him with the same ardent desperation, as if they were adrift on some vast lake and he was the only thing keeping her from drowning.

And then, all at once, the reporter was finished. Lucy, on the other hand, was still letting out moans that were so soft he couldn’t quite tell if they were entirely from pleasure or she was still longing for more. Fred wanted so much to look in her eyes, but it was so dark in the room that he could barely discern the outline of her body. Since he couldn’t look at the actress, he simply rolled her on her side and held her tight, smoothing her tousled curls out of her face and bathing her damp cheeks with soft kisses as she shivered and whimpered and slowly came back to herself.

Before the reporter could ask her what she wanted _him_ to do for her now, Lucy slipped out of his arms, and in short order, he heard the click of the washroom door closing. Not sure if he should take her abrupt departure as a sign of dismissal or encouragement, Fred waited intently for the tub to start filling. But to his surprise, the washroom door reopened not two minutes later, the lights blinked on, and Lucy’s beautiful face beamed at him as she bustled around the room in her billowy nightgown completing her nighttime ablutions. As soon as she deemed herself presentable in the dingy and cracked vanity mirror, she extinguished the lights and slipped into bed again. To Fred’s delight, she was not at all skittish about his presence, eagerly settling into his waiting arms.

Encouraged by her affection and ease, Fred whispered in a voice that was still hoarse after all the strain it had been under not too long ago, “You’re the best I’ve ever had, Lucy… the very best.”

Unsurprisingly, the actress let out a lighthearted laugh as if this was merely a casual piece of flattery on his part. But at the same time, she nestled closer to him and wrapped her arm around his waist. “You’d better be careful, Fred,” she teasingly warned in a voice that was equally as throaty. “A girl could get used to spending every single night in your arms… ”

Though Fred longed to assure her that from now on, he wasn’t planning to spend his nights anywhere but in her company, he deemed it far too early to state such sentiments aloud, even flirtatiously. So he said nothing as he tightened his arms around her and planted sweet kisses on her jasmine-scented hair, hoping these gestures would suffice to get the message across… at least for the time being.

It wasn’t until her breathing had grown slow and deep that he whispered, “I hope you _do_ get used to this, Lucy. I want to spend every single night of the rest of my life with you… ”

She didn’t stir, nor did the cadence of her breathing change even a single iota. Either she was one of the best actresses he had ever known, or she truly was asleep. Fred strongly suspected the latter – though she was just as practiced at maintaining that small but crucial modicum of distance from a lover as he was, he’d proven surprisingly adept at piercing the actress’s armor for such a heated remark not to affect her. But even if he was mistaken, it wasn’t a conversation either of them was ready to have.

So Fred let out a long sigh and tried to join Lucy in her slumber. It should have been easy for him to drift off, as he was exhausted, but the wheels in his mind wouldn’t stop turning. While he knew beyond a doubt she hadn’t heard his whispered confession, his instincts still sensed that something was awry. Earlier, he’d been too dazed by his own lust to pay attention, but now that those appetites had been well and thoroughly sated, he was able to review the entire evening with a clear head.

Lucy was hiding something from him. And after putting together all the pieces, the reporter was pretty certain he could guess what it was.

At first, Fred hadn’t thought to question why Lucy pulled him right into an embrace the instant he attempted to turn on a lamp. Such rapacious avidity was not at all out of the ordinary for her, and her desire for him was too fierce to be anything but genuine, even if there might have been a small element of calculation in her heated enthusiasm. So he might never have suspected anything if not for what happened when he had her lying on her back, legs splayed wide open: As the reporter happily obliged the actress’s impassioned encouragements to draw out her pleasure, the ministrations of his hands and mouth giving her the ecstasy he couldn’t seem to accomplish through traditional lovemaking, his wandering fingers came across a long, raised line across her lower stomach. Given that it was too dark to see what it was, Fred’s hands tentatively began to explore this unexpected bump – until Lucy froze for a split second, and then giggled and wriggled out of his grip, pleading that she was far too ticklish for him to touch her _there_. While her sudden squeamishness was a bit odd, Fred had wanted her too badly to risk spoiling the mood between them, so he immediately withdrew his hands to her inner thighs and caressed her until the tension drained from her body and she was moaning unconcernedly in his embrace once more.

But Lucy still remained on her guard. When Fred eventually lowered himself over her supine body and put his hand between them to position himself to enter her, his fingers accidentally grazed the scar on her stomach. By then, he was so desperate for Lucy that _he_ had forgotten what transpired, and was genuinely flummoxed by her abrupt redirection of their lovemaking. As she writhed frantically on top of him, he wasn’t in any frame of mind to slow her down, let alone ponder what caused this sudden shift. Lucy remained just as disinclined for him to withdraw before climax; on the contrary, she clung even tighter to him as he came. Given that the actress had just as much vested interest in not conceiving a child as the reporter did, and that she was too worldly a woman to leave such momentous occurrences entirely to chance, that scar most likely explained why she was so cavalier about taking precautions: Lucy van der Hoeven didn’t need to worry about conceiving because when she _had_ carried a child, something went horribly awry. Something she didn’t want him even to know about, though she had to have realized that even if she insisted on making love in the dark, his not being able to take in the sight of her wouldn’t prevent him from getting a good idea of what her body looked like in other ways… which was probably why she tended to scoot right off to the washroom to don her nightgown as soon as they finished making love – she couldn’t risk him caressing her naked body during an idle moment, where he would be much more inclined to ask intrusive questions about anything out of the ordinary that he discovered.

Normally, Fred would have known exactly how to proceed, now that he’d put together all the pieces of the puzzle. But this time, he was stymied. Sure, he could have patiently but persistently interrogated Lucy until she revealed all the particulars about her scar… and then she’d never want to speak to him again after he coerced her into divulging what was likely to be one of the most tragic and excruciating events of her life. Although it was none of his business, he was a man who must always know the truth, and if Lucy never willingly opened up to him at least a little bit about her past, they could never be anything more than a short-lived affair. The plans he was making to parlay himself into a career that would allow him to travel the country with the actress would be for naught if she shunned such intimacy. So how could he convince her to let him into her heart just as enthusiastically as she welcomed him into her bed?

_You let her into your heart, first. You tell her everything about your own past, no matter how painful or embarrassing – without expecting her to tell you anything in return._

Fred cringed at such a frightening thought. As Harold Hill had demonstrated during their tense conversation at the River City freight depot, it was much easier to do the interrogating than the confessing. But to give Lucy everything without reservation was almost too daunting to fathom. It had been tremendously difficult for the reporter to overcome the first two times he’d lost a woman he loved; there would be no recovering from a third loss. He was too old and too cynical to take such reckless gambles; it was ridiculously imprudent of him to try to shoot for the moon when life had repeatedly demonstrated that the best he could hope for was merely to howl at it with gusto on those rare occasions he was given the chance.

But wasn’t _he_ hoping that Lucy would do exactly that? And after having experienced a good deal of heartbreak, herself? Fred couldn’t reasonably expect her to give him all of herself unless he was prepared to do the same in return. The reporter gritted his teeth and buried his face in the actress’s jasmine-scented curls. There was no other way around it. He had to put his heart entirely on the line; he had to risk breaking it yet again. Deep down, he’d always known he would come to this crossroads, which is why he’d avoided pursuing Lucy in the first place. But his heart had refused to let her go when she ended up coming to him, and he’d gotten in too deep to turn back now. As he inhaled the bewitching scent of the woman he’d fallen so head over heels for, he remembered not just the sweet way she smiled at him and the way she moaned in his arms, but also the way he relished simply conversing with her over dinner. He had never met a woman as clever or perceptive or well-spoken as Lucy van der Hoeven. Hell, he’d never met a woman whose company was so scintillating _outside_ the bedroom – not even Marian or Bess had fascinated and enthralled him to this degree. And the reporter also had the sneaking suspicion that when it came to lovemaking, Lucy was far more adventurous than either the prim librarian or small-town farm girl ever would have been.

 _And if you’re wrong about Lucy being the love of your life, just like you were about Bess Appleton, and Marian Paroo?_ asked that nagging little voice that always plagued him, even in the midst of clarity. Lucy was extremely adept at redirecting a man’s attention not only in conversation, but in the most intimate of situations. While stark honesty on his part had worked wonders, the actress was clever enough to avoid revealing anything she truly wished to keep hidden. She might never reciprocate his trust or even his love, and he’d be even more alone than he was before…

Fred shook his head. He’d cross that bridge when – and if – he ever came to it. If he had to put himself entirely on the line to gain Lucy’s trust, that’s exactly what he’d do. She was well worth the risk. And if she gave him her heart, the rewards would be immeasurable. Thus decided, the reporter allowed himself to indulge in the delightful sensations of the present, and thought about nothing but how wonderful it felt to have the woman he loved sleeping peacefully in his arms, until his breathing finally slowed to match hers.

XXX

Shortly after sunrise the next morning, Fred slipped out of bed and got dressed, moving quickly and quietly as Lucy lay fast asleep. It wasn’t until he was standing at the vanity staring down at her purse that he halted.

It was a bit strange he should feel such pangs of unease at his own intrusiveness – in his quest for the truth, he’d never hesitated to do a bit of snooping through personal effects if the situation called for it. But that was strictly business. This was not; he simply wanted to surprise Lucy with breakfast in bed. Fred didn’t anticipate being away for more than forty-five minutes, maybe an hour at the most, but he wanted to make sure the actress was slumbering safely behind locked doors while he was gone, as this wasn’t the greatest part of town. And to do that, he needed her room key. Which meant he needed to go through her purse to find it.

As loath as he was to do this, it was the lesser of the two evils; he’d never forgive himself if he left her door unlocked and something happened to her in his absence. But what if she woke up while he was out and realized what he’d done? Or worse, what if she woke up while he was actually going through her purse?

Fred gritted his teeth and rolled his eyes at his reticence. Did every action have to become an insurmountable moral quandary after falling in love? Casting a glance at Lucy to ensure that she was still deep in slumber, he slipped his hand into her purse. And through sheer luck – or perhaps it was a sign that Providence approved – the first thing his fingers came into contact with was metal. Swiftly drawing the key out of the purse and putting it into the pocket of his suit-coat, Fred lost no time in quitting the hotel. If fortune continued to smile upon him, Lucy wouldn’t wake up until the very moment he was delivering her breakfast.

As it was Sunday, all the bakeries, eateries and restaurants were closed, so the reporter returned to his flat to retrieve the sweet rolls and sausage he’d purchased the day before, as well as brew a pot of fresh coffee. He also shaved and changed into a clean suit, for good measure. As soon as Fred finished cleaning himself up and gathering his victuals together, he hastened back to the hotel.

Entering the room just as quietly as he’d left – nearly two hours had passed, as he’d gotten himself into a silly dither over what suit he should wear! – Fred was relieved to see that Lucy was still curled up beneath the covers. Placing everything he’d brought on the end table next to the threadbare sofa, he poured a cup of coffee, buttered a roll, and sliced up a sausage. Once he’d assembled a plate of food, he approached the bed.

The moment Fred’s eyes landed on Lucy, he realized she wasn’t really sleeping. After having watched her extensively in slumber the night before and earlier this morning, he knew that she _had_ to be awake: her body was too rigidly still and her breathing was too shallow.

Torn between amusement at her charade and disappointment that his scheme had been foiled, Fred nevertheless decided to take her act at face value. “Good morning!” he said brightly, setting the cup and plate down on the end table by the bed before bending down to plant a warm kiss on Lucy’s check. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Lucy’s eyes remained staunchly closed, but she smiled, and her body relaxed. “I am, as a matter of fact,” she said in a surprisingly hoarse voice. Fred was startled for a moment – perhaps he’d been mistaken and she was sleeping, after all? – but then her eyes opened and he saw they were red-rimmed.

Though the reporter was concerned by her apparent distress, he thought it best to pretend nothing was amiss, and grinned at the actress. “I thought you might be, so I made you breakfast.” He started to hand her the plate of food he’d prepared for her, and then froze when he realized she was gaping at him with an expression that was intense yet inscrutable; he couldn’t tell whether she was dumbfounded, elated or appalled… or maybe even a combination of the three.

Fred forced a laugh. “Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for,” he said in mock chagrin, hoping to provoke a smile. A teasing note entered his tone. “Even if you’ve had fewer lovers than fingers to count them on, surely I’m not the first man who ever bought you breakfast!”

Lucy blinked. “You are, actually,” she said flatly. Then her face crumpled, and she burst into tears.

Cursing himself for his utter ineptitude, Fred immediately crawled into bed next to the actress and took her in his arms. Though he longed to tell her how sorry he was for hurting her and how much he was itching to hunt down and deck all those men who’d simply taken what they’d wanted from her without even bothering with the merest of social niceties afterward – even though he’d never felt anything more than the fleeting attraction of the moment for any of the women he’d previously gone to bed with, he’d bought more than a few of his lovers breakfast before saying his farewells! – he’d learned well enough from his past missteps that when in doubt, it was best to shut up. So he simply held Lucy as she sobbed. And when she tried to apologize for her behavior through her tears, he gently shushed her in return, and held her even tighter.

Once she’d cried herself out, Fred pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped up her face, tore off a small portion of the buttered sweet roll, and fed it to her. It was the oddest and silliest thing he’d ever done to cheer up a weeping woman, but not only did Lucy giggle with real merriment as she accepted each piece of bread he offered, she insisted on feeding him little bits of roll and sausage in return. As they fed each other breakfast, Fred couldn’t help laughing, as well – this wasn’t at all the way he’d envisioned things going, but he couldn’t have planned a more delightful interlude. Especially when Lucy started kissing him in between bites. And when they finally ran out of food, their mouths met in a long, unbroken kiss that wasn’t hard and hungry and breathless, but soft and slow and sweet; the kind of kiss he’d been meaning to give her ever since he’d first escorted her back to her hotel room. However, it wasn’t long until Lucy started to unbutton his suit-coat. Fred would have allowed her to continue without protest, but her fingers were trembling so badly that he caught her slender hands in his as he continued to kiss her as tenderly as he knew how.

“It’s _your_ turn now, Lucy,” he whispered when he finally broke their kiss. Their eyes met, and though he looked at her with unabashed longing, his heart constricted when he saw the apprehension in her gaze. Still, she let out a shaky breath and nodded her assent.

Withdrawing to remove his clothes, Fred slipped beneath the covers and took Lucy in his arms. She was still wearing her billowy nightgown, but the fabric was thin enough for him to tell that she wasn’t wearing any drawers beneath it. Their eyes met again, and he held her gaze as he stroked his way slowly and deliberately beneath her negligee and ran his hands over her bare thighs. As he examined her body with gentle fingers, she began to relax, and soon she was trembling not with nervousness but delight. Her eyes fluttered shut and her hands clutched his shoulders as she let out one soft moan after another, completely opening herself to his caresses.

There was so much Fred wanted to tell her, but there was nothing he could say. If he opened his mouth, the depth of his feelings for her would spill out and frighten her into retreating behind her mask of blasé detachment, spoiling this promising moment between them. But it wasn’t enough to have the actress lying utterly pliant beneath his ministrations. He wanted – needed! – to touch more than mere flesh. So before the reporter’s sense of circumspection once again got the better of him, his hands found and stroked the jagged scar across her stomach.

Unsurprisingly, Lucy immediately tensed up and her eyes flew open. Though his heart was pounding, he steadily met her affronted gaze, telling her without words that he was not in the least repulsed by what he’d discovered about her. As wonder seeped into the actress’s expression, he craned his head to give her a soft, deep kiss, continuing to caress her healed-over wound as he did so.

When their lips finally parted, Lucy moaned his name in what sounded like a relieved sob, and curled her body around his once more. Although Fred never managed to get her entirely out of her nightgown the entire time they made love, this tryst somehow felt far more intimate than when they had been completely naked and entwined in their franticly heated embraces of previous nights. And when he brought Lucy to climax not once, but a second and then third time before he finally joined her in the culmination of pleasure, it was merely the icing on the cake for him.

XXX

Afterward, Fred somehow managed to dodge the temptation to fall into slumber, and dragged himself from the bed with a groan.

“ _Now_ where are you off to?” Lucy asked plaintively, surveying him with a reproachful gaze.

The reporter let out a long sigh as he looked down at the deliciously rumpled actress. “I have a luncheon to attend.”

Lucy’s frown deepened as she smoothed her nightgown back down over her thighs. “On a Sunday?” she asked skeptically.

“I’m afraid so,” he confirmed with a rueful smile. “A society fête, for charity. Something to do with town beautification for the upcoming July Fourth festivities, I think… ” He trailed off and shrugged, feeling vaguely embarrassed that he couldn’t give her a more satisfactory reason for eschewing her company. “I’m not quite sure, I’d have to look at the invitation again.” He sighed again. “I’ve attended so many of these high-society teas and luncheons that they all start to blur together after awhile.”

The actress made a face. “Sounds dreadfully dull.” But then she smiled. “Can I come with you?”

Fred laughed, more out of surprise than amusement. “Now, why on earth would you want to waste a lovely Sunday afternoon on such a dreary pursuit? Believe me, if I didn’t have a Monday morning deadline, I’d be spending the rest of the day here with you!”

Lucy’s beam didn’t even waver. “Because I want to see first-hand how you turn an ordinary event into an engaging story.” She pursed her lips at him. “It hardly seems fair that you’ve watched me at my work for two solid weeks, without giving me the same opportunity to see you in return.”

Normally, Fred’s first impulse would have been to persuade her with all the charm he could muster that she _didn’t_ want to spend the afternoon with him while he was working – he’d always made it a point to never mix business with pleasure. But he was so captivated by the idea of this talented actress taking such an active interest in his profession that he couldn’t bring himself to say no. However, he would have to disabuse her of the notion that his job held as much glamor or excitement as she might have been imagining.

“Suit yourself, but I already wrote most of the copy for the story while I was in the office yesterday,” the reporter said off-handedly as he moved about the room, putting on his clothes.

Lucy bolted upright in bed. “You already wrote the story?” she asked, sounding downright scandalized.

Fred repressed a laugh – whenever he let this slip in the course of a conversation, the reaction was always the same. However, he couldn’t help being a bit surprised in this instance – for a world-weary actress who was familiar with the contrived nature of public entertainments, Lucy’s befuddlement was remarkably naïve. “For something like this, sure,” the reporter replied with another shrug. “The hostess of the luncheon not only sent me sent an invitation, she also included the guest list and the menu beforehand. I’ve been to similar affairs at Mrs. Parkstone’s estate before, so I know where it is located and what it looks like. And the people who attend these parties tend to be the same people who say the same things when asked for a quote.”

Lucy folded her arms. “Then why even bother going?” she asked with a wistful petulance he found endearing, because he heard in her tone the “… instead of staying here with me?” part she left out.

Although he was touched by her regard and didn’t wish to appear churlish, Fred could no longer hold back his laughter. “And risk offending one of the wealthiest women in Des Moines by being a no-show after having accepted her invitation?” He paused in knotting his bowtie, and gave the actress an indulgent smile. “I don’t write everything beforehand,” he admitted. “After all, there are always variables – the weather, the season, what all the ladies are wearing. And Mrs. Parkstone also informed me that she’s done over the main parlor recently – which she’s going to expect me to recount in exhaustive detail for the readers.”

“And will you do just that?” Lucy asked, her lips twitching as if she was the one who was now trying to stifle mirth.

Fred grimaced as he went back to tying his bowtie. “Unfortunately, I have to. Because she’s right – those are exactly the details that the readers of these kinds of stories want to know. So I’ll have make sure to observe every single thing I see this afternoon, from the massive Chinese silk brocade tapestries right down to the delicate filigree work of the tiniest silver teaspoon.”

He was hoping to provoke another laugh, or at least a giggle, so he could have a fond memory to recall in the midst of the tedium that lay ahead – surely, the actress wouldn’t want to go with him now that he’d made it absolutely clear that he’d be far too preoccupied to converse with her this afternoon, even if she was his guest – but Lucy nodded understandingly, rose from the bed, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I’d be happy to help you catalog everything. As a little girl, I relished reading all the society columns aloud to my mother and father at the breakfast table each morning, in spite of – or perhaps because – of the fact that we lived in a small farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.” Their eyes met in the mirror, and Fred wasn’t sure what stunned him more – the fact that the actress had nonchalantly related something about her childhood for the first time since he’d known her, or that she was actually blushing, as if she expected him to laugh at her provincial upbringing. “I’ve wanted to be an actress all my life, you see,” she sheepishly explained, “and the columns’ overwrought tone and superlative-laden sentences were perfect for practicing proper diction and enunciation.”

Although Fred’s first instinct was to ask her several probing but gentle follow-up questions in order to learn even more about her past, he made himself adhere to the course of action he’d decided on the previous evening. Turning to face Lucy with a sympathetic smile, he told her, “As a boy who also grew up in a little farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, I was hoping that music would be my ticket to bigger and better places. So I practiced my trumpet until my lips bled.” He brushed a curl off her cheek, hoping the tender gesture would soften the acrimony he could feel stealing into his expression. “But as you can see, a music career didn’t quite pan out for me. I _did_ win a scholarship to the University of Iowa School of Music, but when it ran out after a year, my parents refused to lend me the money to continue my studies. So I took the first job I could find in Des Moines to make ends meet… and that’s how I ended up where I am today.”

Lucy buried her face his crook of his neck and nestled encouragingly closer. “Well, if you’re half as good a trumpet player as you are a writer, it’s a real shame you were thwarted from continuing down that path.”

Fred laughed and planted a kiss on her tousled tresses. “Although I was bitterly disappointed at the time, even then I knew deep down that I wasn’t talented enough for my family to stake their finances on my pie-in-the-sky dreams of becoming a musician. They had three other daughters to support, and it would have been terribly selfish for me to insist they invest their meager resources in what would have been a mediocre and ultimately doomed career.”

Her head snapped up, and she regarded him with an exasperated look. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Fred, you couldn’t have been _that_ mediocre if you won a scholarship!”

“Being the best trumpet player in a town where you are the only trumpet player is hardly a sterling achievement, my dear,” the reporter said, both flattered and amused by Lucy’s enthusiastic defense on his behalf. “Besides, my trumpet-playing wasn’t what won me the scholarship – I composed a march that took first place in a contest.”

“A march, eh?” She looked intrigued. “You’ll have to play your piece for me sometime, and let me be the judge of your talent.”

He chuckled as if it didn’t much matter to him, even though his stomach churned in both excitement and terror at the notion of performing for such an accomplished actress. “If you like. But how would you prefer to hear this mangled march? Via the trumpet, cello, flute or piano? I can play all four instruments as mediocre as you please.”

Lucy scowled at him. “I still suspect you underrate yourself,” she said stubbornly. “But what time is the luncheon? We ought to get going, or we’ll be late!”

“I’m all dressed,” Fred pointed out with a grin. He gestured to her wrinkled negligee. “You’re the one who’s holding us up!”

“Aw, shucks,” the actress laughed, waving her hand dismissively. “It’ll take me five minutes to make myself presentable!”

At first, Fred doubted that, and was about to teasingly say so – but then he remembered how quickly she met him at the stage door after the final curtain fell last night. Rapid costume changes were an actress’s stock in trade. So he simply nodded and looked over the paperwork in his satchel as she grabbed a gown from her trunk and withdrew to the washroom to carry out her morning ablutions.

Indeed, barely three minutes had passed when Lucy emerged from the washroom wearing yet another velvet walking suit with abalone buttons up the skirt – but this time in forest green.

Still in a teasing mood, Fred couldn’t resist remarking, “Yesterday I saw that gown in wine red, the day before that it was navy blue. Do you have any other colors remaining after today’s special?”

The actress burst into laughter. “You _do_ have an eye for detail!” she said, sounding impressed. A sheepish note entered her tone, and she turned away from him to toy with her curls in the vanity mirror. “And I do have two more of these gowns that you haven’t seen yet – one in brown and one in violet. With all the elaborate and cumbersome costumes that my characters have to wear onstage, I need my real-life clothing to be as simple and uncomplicated as possible. So whenever I find a gown that’s both practical for a life of travel and flattering to my silhouette, I order one in every shade that suits my complexion. Men do this all the time with their suits, so I thought, what’s sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose!” Placing that adorable, eclectic navy hat at a rakish angle on her head, Lucy paused to survey her reflection with a critical eye. “Though high society tends to be far more critical of what the women are wearing than the men – woe to the poor female who shows up to a soiree in the wrong outfit!” Her apprehensive gaze met Fred’s in the mirror. “Is this ensemble suitable enough for an uppercrust affair? I spend so much time wearing extravagant and revealing get-ups that sometimes I forget what’s actually appropriate outside of the theater… ”

Fred wrapped his arms around her waist and dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck. “You look lovely,” he said earnestly. “Elegant, yet understated – you couldn’t have picked a better ensemble for being a reporter’s escort.” As she turned her head to smile directly at him, he kissed her again, this time on the lips. “And this is my favorite color on you, so far. The green brings out your eyes beautifully.”

“Oh Fred, a simple _yes_ would have sufficed,” she admonished – though it was plain to see from her beaming countenance that she was thoroughly delighted by his assessment. “I wasn’t fishing for flattery!”

He tightened his arms around her and kissed her again, this time a little bit harder. “It’s not flattery – it’s my honest opinion. You’re the most gorgeous, charming, captivating woman I’ve ever met.”

Lucy giggled and nestled a little closer to him as he continued to trail a line of progressively heated kisses along the side of her neck. “Well, you’d better be careful with all your sweet words,” she warned, “or we won’t end up making it to the luncheon on time, if we even manage to escape the hotel room at all!”

As much as Fred wanted to rise to that particular challenge and see just how much he could make her moan in the next ten minutes, he ruefully reflected that she was right. With a sigh, he let go of the actress and stepped away to a respectable distance. “Shall we, Miss van der Hoeven?” he asked with a grin, refraining from offering her his arm until _after_ he’d opened the door, lest the temptation to pull her back into his arms and finish what he’d started get the better of him again.

XXX

Given that the reporter was now a familiar fixture at these charity teas, his arrival at the Parkstone estate was marked with little fanfare, even with Lucy in tow. There was a stir of interest among the ladies when Fred introduced this new stranger to Mrs. Parkstone, though he had already planned for such an eventuality; he smoothly explained to the august matron and those in earshot that Lucy was a dear family friend visiting from out of town, and that he had brought her along to give his commentary the feminine perspective his society columns lacked. Though he’d introduced Lucy to them all as “Miss Miller,” he did drop the vague hint that she was a patron of the arts, in order to ensure her acceptance into the group without having to outright mention her career. Fred didn’t deem it appropriate to make the actress into the center of attention at this gathering, nor did he think she would appreciate being petted and pampered by a fawning crowd of admirers on this occasion.

Fred fervently hoped he hadn’t upset Lucy by downplaying her occupation – it was hard to tell, as she was a master of hiding her true feelings beneath a placid smile – but given that there was an excellent chance that most, if not all, of the ladies had seen _No, No Nanette_ , they would have immediately known who the actress was if he’d revealed her distinctive surname. The reporter was a bit apprehensive they’d still recognize her from looks alone, but with her demure forest-green gown and politely retiring demeanor – a far cry from Nanette’s high-spirited behavior and garishly-hued ensembles – Lucy did not arouse the slightest suspicion.

And not only did the actress seamlessly integrate herself into her surroundings, she demonstrated the same adept social acumen as she did with the crowd outside the stage door the previous evening. To Fred’s surprise and delight, her ability to hold her own in conversation, neither monopolizing the discussion nor falling victim to a perpetual monologue, proved invaluable. As Lucy fielded the endless chatter with aplomb, the reporter faded quietly into the background and simply took notes, recording the gems he parsed from the prattle for quotes, as well as noting the curtain patterns and other little details Mrs. Parkstone would want him to mention about her recently made-over parlor.

After winding up his observations on the new décor and getting acquiescence from those attendees he was planning to quote, Fred was left with nothing else to do but enjoy the food. The fare was simple but filling: consommé, chicken patties, cold sliced ham, creamed potatoes, endive salad, an assortment of fresh fruit and berries, chocolate pudding, lady fingers, and tea. Given that all the public eateries and dining rooms he frequented were closed on Sundays, the reporter ate a lot better than he usually did on the Sabbath – and he made sure to fill up as much as he could so he wouldn’t be hungry later. Fred was also pleased to see Lucy – who by virtue of her nomadic career must have been quite the veteran Sunday scavenger, herself – doing exactly the same, though in her own subtle and ladylike way.

Unfortunately, Fred was not so circumspect as he ought to have been in every facet of his own behavior; though he charmed the ladies with his complimentary small talk and refrained from making a boor of himself at the buffet, his eyes wandered over to and lingered on Lucy so frequently that he soon realized Mrs. Parkstone was regarding the two of them with a small but knowing smirk. Fortunately, the lady was far too well-bred to pry or make insinuating remarks… or so he thought. As she bade the two of them farewell upon the conclusion of the luncheon, she remarked with arch but genuine approbation that she looked forward to seeing the “amiable and enchanting” Miss Miller at future parties, should the young lady still be in town.

While Fred felt himself grow uncomfortably warm – just _how_ obvious were his feelings to everyone else? – Lucy’s placid smile didn’t falter. In fact, it broadened into a downright beam, and she warmly thanked the hostess for her kindness. Although he still couldn’t help wondering if her effusive outpouring was yet another brilliant performance, he couldn’t remain uneasy for long about the potential repercussions of his lack of restraint. As soon as the pair had exited the wrought-iron gates of the Parkstone estate – Fred made sure to walk at a perfectly respectable distance apart from Lucy all the way down the long driveway – the actress turned to him with a twinkle in her eye, took the dumbfounded reporter by the hand, and pulled him into an alcove of one of the nearby hedges for a kiss that was unabashedly long and deep.

As he never failed to find Lucy’s exuberant and often surprising displays of affection immensely heartening, Fred enthusiastically reciprocated, though he couldn’t help teasing her when they both finally came up for air, “I’ll never make it back to the office to write my article for tomorrow’s paper, if you insist on doing _that_.”

“You mean, fill in the blanks of the story you’ve already written?” Lucy retorted just as mischievously. But she let go of him and swatted him lightly on the arm. “Go on, then.” She hesitated for a moment, before asking in a nonchalant but clearly inquisitive manner, “I’ll see you later at the hotel?”

“Count on it,” Fred assured her with a grin, before the two of them parted ways.

XXX

“Well, it’s about time you got back!” Lucy admonished with a teasing smirk, throwing open the door at his knock. “I’d almost given up on you.”

Fred laughed as she ushered him into the room and took his satchel from him. “I was only gone for three hours.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “That seems like an awfully long time to ‘fill in the blanks’ of an article you told me you already wrote.”

Fred’s smile turned sheepish. “The copy I originally wrote didn’t quite fit the story that ended up emerging, so I rewrote the entire article with a fresh perspective.” Wanting to thoroughly assuage that small but significant gleam of doubt plaguing Lucy’s countenance, as much as she was attempting to gloss over it with her lighthearted banter, the reporter did something he never before would have dreamed of so much as contemplating with any other woman he’d ever known, not even his dear sister Fanny: Bending down to open his satchel, he removed a sheaf of papers and handed them to the actress. “Here’s the reworked article and the original copy… you’ll have to forgive the mess of the latter, as it was far from polished at that point.”

Lucy took a seat on the threadbare sofa and read the two pieces with a furrowed brow. As she perused his work, Fred busied himself with neatening the contents of his already well-organized satchel, hoping that his occupation would at least mask his apprehension, if not alleviate it.

But as ever, the actress demonstrated she was just as good at observing the minute details as he was. After she gave him her verdict regarding the articles – she praised them as both well-written, but agreed his rewrite was much fresher and therefore more suitable for publication – she asked in an amused tone, “What _are_ you doing, still fiddling around with that satchel? I can’t imagine you have that much to set to rights in such a tiny bag!”

Too abashed to admit his discomfort, Fred forced a laugh and replied, “This tiny bag holds a lot more than you might think.” Placing it carefully back on the floor, he took a seat next to Lucy on the sofa and regarded her with a flirtatious grin. “Most notably, a change of clothes so I’ll have something clean to wear when I get up tomorrow morning!”

As Lucy placed his papers just as carefully on the nearby end table and smiled impishly at the reporter in return, it suddenly hit him that she’d exchanged her demure forest-green gown for a bolder crimson silk robe. As she hadn’t even made the slightest pretense of fastening the sash around her slender waist, he had an unfettered view of the ravishing, lacy little number she was wearing beneath it. A far cry from the actress’s plain, billowy negligee of previous evenings – this lingerie was clearly meant for display. Forgetting his nervousness, Fred pulled Lucy onto his lap for a long and thorough hello kiss.

“It’s a shame you didn’t return sooner,” she said in a low, throaty voice. “I was in the tub, waiting for you.”

His pulse started racing even faster than it already was as he breathed in her heady jasmine aroma, which had indeed grown stronger since he’d seen her last. “We could always take another bath,” he suggested, his mouth meandering somewhere in the vicinity of her throat.

Lucy burst into laughter, which diminished the concupiscent atmosphere between them. “I was in the tub for two solid hours, waiting for you!” She slid off his lap and stood up. “I’ve had more than enough baths for one day… are you hungry, Fred?”

Thoroughly bewildered by her question – his body still hadn’t caught up with this mercurial shift in mood and was clamoring for him to pull her back into his lap so he could finish what they’d started – Fred nevertheless gave her question real consideration, and realized that he was indeed. He’d expended a lot more energy than usual by rewriting that article, as well as deciding at the last minute to stop at his flat to grab a change of clothes, and had worked up an appetite. So instead of archly retorting that he _was_ hungry for something other than food, he simply nodded and said, “I am, actually.”

Lucy beamed at him. “Great! I was hoping you’d be.” Without further ado, she opened her trunk and retrieved a bundle of checkered cloth. Placing it on the floor in front of him, she unwrapped it to reveal a cache of bread, jerky, apples and cheese, as well as a few leftovers she’d somehow managed to procure from the charity luncheon. And not only that, everything he saw was something he’d especially enjoyed – she must have been paying close attention to what he most went back to the buffet for.

Fred could only gape at the actress. “How?”

“Well, I didn’t think it was fair that you should have to pay for _all_ of our meals,” she said with a shrug, even as a slight blush suffused her cheeks. “Besides, I always save food for Sundays when everything tends to be closed, and it’s just as easy to gather enough for two as it is one. As for the extras from the luncheon, some of the ladies thought I could use fattening up and insisted I take a little food with me for later.” She laughed. “And they would not take no for an answer!”

The reporter’s first action was to grab the largest piece of sliced ham from the plate she so kindly put together for him – by now, he was downright famished. But as soon as he’d polished off that morsel, he laid the plate aside and pulled Lucy back into his lap for a warm embrace that displayed the full measure of his gratitude. He probably should have stuck to his food until he’d recovered the ability to be circumspect, but he was so overcome by his feelings that a question he’d been champing at the bit to ask since Saturday afternoon came tumbling out in between kisses:

“Come home with me tomorrow night?”

Lucy, who had been sighing delightedly at his ministrations, froze in his arms.

It was far too late to take his invitation back, and even if he could do so without sounding crass, Fred didn’t have the heart to deny himself any longer. But he did try to temper his ardor with rationality, so as to ease the actress’s skittishness. Lifting his head from the crook of her neck, he reasoned, “If _you_ insist on paying for some of our meals, _I_ insist on you being my guest while you’re in town. It’s not economical for you to pay for separate lodgings the entire time, especially when I have a perfectly good flat in a much nicer section of town.” He paused as she continued to regard him with an inscrutable expression. “And please don’t feel you have to come home with me _every_ night afterward. You can always go back to a hotel if the accommodations don’t suit you… ” Fred once again stammered into silence as he realized he was only making things worse; instead of being mollified, Lucy appeared oddly deflated by his reassurances he wasn’t trying to tie her down against her will.

“I appreciate the offer,” she said awkwardly after a tense moment of silence, averting her gaze from his searching eyes. “But I can’t, Fred.”

Fred’s mouth went dry, and his heart sank like a lead weight. He’d known her refusal was coming and steeled himself for it, but somehow, it hurt just as badly to hear the words as it would’ve if her refusal had come as a complete shock. Still, he somehow managed to give her a polite smile, even though she still wasn’t looking at him, and say in a level tone, “I understand.”

Now thoroughly embarrassed and out of sorts, Fred would have quitted the hotel room right then and there if he could have. But he was not such an ungracious coward as to slink away like a dog with his tail between his legs. He _would_ spend the entire night with Lucy, just as he’d indicated – though it would take nothing short of a miracle to get him into a suitably amorous mood.

But the reporter was determined to persevere, as he refused to let on just how much this setback had knocked him off balance. Not because he petulantly wanted to hide his feelings – though, in all honesty, his wounded pride was making him loath to let her in any further than he already had – but because he didn’t want her to feel obligated to give him anything more than she honestly wished to bestow.

Fortunately, Lucy staunchly preferred making love with the lights out. So after they both quietly finished eating their dinner, Fred reached out to extinguish the lamp. In the dark, he could easily picture the two of them in his bed at home with her eyes saying _yes_ to him as he made love to her, fooling himself long enough to get the job done adequately… if lacking in a little inspiration. But before he could plunge the squalid hotel room into darkness, Lucy placed her hand over his.

Fred exhaled sharply. Was she really going to deny him even the paltry comfort of his imagination? Still, even if she insisted on keeping the lights on, she couldn’t force him to look at her – now it was his turn to avert his gaze while her searching eyes probed his countenance.

“Fred?” the actress asked softly, hesitantly – though her hand firmly rested over his.

His lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “Yes, Lucy?” he said, his own voice barely audible.

“I want to show you something.” Getting to her feet, she removed her robe and then her lacy negligee, not seductively, but matter-of-factly. As she stood completely naked before him, his eyes drank in her every curve and valley. The scar, though long and raised, was thin and barely visible, nearly hidden by the mound of hair his hands already knew very intimately. Although he’d guessed its origin, he was somewhat surprised to see stretch marks on her stomach and thighs. Yet he was not disgusted, only saddened, because it meant his suspicions as to just what had given her that scar were indeed correct.

Before he could say anything, Lucy came over to him and straddled his lap, and he found himself looking deep into her eyes despite himself as she said, “Of the rare few men who ever discovered that mark on my stomach, you’re the first man who ever ran your hands over it like _that_. When you did, you made me feel less alone in the world. I want to do the same for you.” She kissed him lightly on the lips and began to unbuckle his belt.

If ever there was a time _not_ to talk, this was it. But once again, Fred couldn’t help himself. “I don’t want your pity, Lucy,” he said sullenly, even as the burning need for her that he never thought he’d feel tonight once again welled up in him.

The actress blinked, and a tear rolled her cheek. She quickly wiped it away and continued to work him free of his trousers and then his drawers. “It’s not pity, Fred,” she said in a tremulous voice. But even in her discomfiture, she demonstrated the same astuteness he both admired and found nerve-wracking, “And it’s not a consolation prize for turning down your invitation to come stay with you. I _want_ to give this to you. I’ve been looking forward to doing this ever since you bought me breakfast this morning… ”

The last of his disquiet evaporating along with his self-control, Fred’s mouth immediately found hers. Even after she broke their kiss to finish undressing him, and even though her eyes never left his as she straddled his lap and took him in, nothing more was said. If her leaving the lights on hadn’t bolstered his confidence, he couldn’t doubt in the wake of Lucy’s heated, intent gaze that her feelings for him were steadily growing. He’d asked her to come home with him just a little too soon, that’s all. It was a slight error – not a grave setback, as he’d initially feared. So for the time being, nothing else needed to be said – or even imagined – as she made love to him with all the exquisite tenderness she’d implicitly promised, until thoroughly sated, they both collapsed into each other’s arms and drifted off to sleep.


	4. And You Can Get It, If You Try

_But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,_  
 _Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,_  
 _Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter,_  
 _And weep, but not all of your tears._

_~Kahlil Gibran on Love_

XXX

After that first weekend spent almost entirely in each other’s company, the reporter and actress remained inseparable, falling into a cozy little routine that was almost domestic in tone. After eating breakfast with Lucy each morning, Fred went to whatever events he was scheduled to cover, and then to the office to write his stories. Later that night, he met the actress at the stage door after her performance. Once they’d eaten a late supper at Bill’s, they returned to Lucy’s hotel room and made love until they fell asleep. The next morning, more often than not, they made love as soon as they awoke, then dragged themselves from bed to find suitably clean – or at least unwrinkled – clothing. Their morning ablutions complete, the first item of business was selecting an eatery for breakfast… and the routine began again.

Of course, not every day was exactly the same, owing to the varied nature of Fred’s assignments and Lucy’s performance schedule. In addition, having proven herself an indispensable assistant and proofreader, the actress often tagged along with the reporter to help cover his events for the paper. On the one or two nights a week Lucy didn’t have a show to get to, the two of them treated themselves to a new restaurant or took a sightseeing jaunt in the city. And there was also one glorious day when Fred had nothing he had to cover, so he was able to spend a deliciously decadent morning and afternoon in bed with Lucy, right up until she had to get to the theater for that night’s performance.

There was also one occasion when an event Fred was supposed to attend was cancelled at the last minute and, since Lucy had a matinee to be at that particular afternoon, he decided to attend her show. Although he did not relish having to sit through that awful _Tea for Two_ again, he was curious to see if his opinion of Lucy’s performance had changed, now that they had gone from strangers to lovers. And as he’d always done, he sat right in the front row. Unsurprisingly, the actress was a consummate professional at her craft, not even casting so much as the briefest of sideways glances at the reporter, though he was sitting a mere foot away from her. Yet it did not matter to Fred whether or not she was aware of his presence, as he was too busy being just as thoroughly enchanted by her performance as he’d been before they met. For it wasn’t Lucy’s magnetic stage presence alone that made her an amazing actress, it was the way she so fully inhabited the bright, bubbly and naïve Nanette that left him in awe; though he now knew her to be nothing like her character in real life, she was so natural and nonchalant that it was as if she were simply being herself as she chattered and sang and pranced across the stage.

Perhaps that was why, when Tom Trainor pulled her to him for their happy-ending kiss, Fred felt a slight but unsettling flutter of apprehension in his heart. For a split second, Lucy regarded her leading man with the exact same quiet yet fierce ardor that always blazed in her eyes whenever her lovemaking with _him_ was particularly tender. As his heart began to hammer with a disconcerting mix of arousal and dismay at the romantic tableau, the reporter couldn’t help wondering if she was merely drawing on her real-life experience to muster up the appropriate expression for a woman who was wholeheartedly yielding to the man she loved… or had she been acting with _him_? As “Tom” dipped his “Nanette” to deepen their kiss, Fred’s fists actually clenched, even as he told himself he was being an idiot. Even if the man had designs on his leading lady in real life, Lucy van der Hoeven’s standoffish reputation was legendary among her colleagues; surely, he had to have known he didn’t stand a chance no matter how passionately he made pretend love to her!

Yet as much as the reporter believed his own reassurances that the actor playing Tom Trainor was no threat, he made sure he was first in line before the clamoring crowd at the stage door to greet Lucy after the final curtain fell. But to his chagrin, the actress was accompanied by her co-star – and for the first time ever! Apparently, the actor – who was also named Tom in real life – had expressed a great deal of interest in meeting Lucy’s “new friend.” Fred bristled at the man’s unabashedly suggestive tone, and his first impulse was to put this prying puppy in his place with a polite but curt greeting. However, when he realized just how avidly and appreciatively the actor was eying him, his jealousy immediately dissipated, and he had to repress a burst of laughter. As he’d surmised, Tom was no romantic rival… not to _him_ , anyway! But even so, Fred couldn’t contain his exultant grin when Lucy possessively threaded her arm through his and told her co-star with an arch but warning smirk to go find his own “friend.”

The reporter would have thought, with all the time they were spending together, the actress would eventually grow weary of his company. During the first few weeks they spent together, Fred wondered if he ought to make it a point to return to his own place for the night every now and then. A night alone to clear his head would probably have been wise. But he never seemed to find just the right night to part from her – whenever they separated, Lucy always worded her goodbyes in a way that nonchalantly but indisputably indicated she hoped to see him at lunch or dinner or the hotel later, and Fred didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. And while it may have been ridiculously and even dangerously sentimental of him, he couldn’t stomach the idea of purposely going to bed alone when the woman he loved but needed to pursue very carefully lest he frighten her away was so eager for his company.

Indeed, whenever Fred met Lucy at the side door after a performance, she looked absolutely thrilled to see him, as if his arrival was a wonderful surprise she never counted on. Her exhilaration both delighted and pained him; while it was wonderful to see this evidence of just how much she cared for him – even if she wasn’t likely to admit it should he be so foolhardy as to confess the depth of his own feelings – he wished she could trust him at least a little bit. But then Fred would remember the jagged scar across her stomach, and could never blame Lucy for expecting so little of him… or being so guarded about her past. While she had told him all about her life and travels as an actress, she hadn’t divulged anything more than a few pearls here and there about her childhood in the middle of nowhere, or how she managed to break into the business in the first place. So far, all the reporter had gleaned from their conversations was that Lucy van der Hoeven originally hailed from Pilger, Nebraska, a town just as sleepy and sparsely populated as Charleston, Iowa, and that she’d wanted to escape the drudgery of farm life to become an actress for as long as she could remember.

Besides the few remarks she’d made about her previous unsatisfactory casual affairs – as well as her brazen confidence in the bedroom, which was really quite striking, even for a woman in her profession – the actress divulged nothing further about her romantic past, let alone the man whose child she’d carried. Was he the same man who’d broken her heart and left her so cynical about men in general? Whenever Fred showed Lucy any fondness or consideration outside of lovemaking, she would get teary-eyed, though she never again burst into tears the way she did the first time he bought her breakfast. However, early one morning, when he returned with hot cross buns and coffee from a nearby bakery, he also brought a suitcase with several changes of clothes. It might have been overly presumptuous of him, but his satchel was too small to fit many extras outside of his paperwork, and he was tired of having to go all the way home to put on a fresh outfit each day. Since it was still too early to ask the actress to come stay with him, he needed to do _something_ to hint to her she was more to him than a mere fling. As the reporter quietly but conspicuously placed his suitcase next to the threadbare sofa, he felt Lucy staring at him. But when he turned to smile at her, her face grew flushed – one of the few times he’d actually seen her blush! – and she immediately resumed her previous occupation of smoothing her rumpled curls in the dingy vanity mirror.

Deciding not to overplay his hand – and a bit nervous that the actress might read him the riot act for daring to insinuate his possessions into her surroundings once the blush faded from her cheeks – Fred chatted to her in the same nonchalant, lighthearted vein as he did every morning, and was relieved when she relaxed and bantered blithely with him in return. He subsequently forgot all about the matter until, when getting dressed the next morning, he realized that his suitcase had been moved all the way over to the armoire. And not only that, one of the doors had been left ajar, as if by accident… coincidentally revealing ample space for his apparel.

So, he had made a little bit of progress! As the reporter selected a suit to wear and then packed the rest of his clothing away, he whistled happily to himself.

“Is that your march?” Lucy asked brightly as she emerged from the washroom. “It’s awfully catchy.”

In response, Fred could only gaze admiringly at the actress as he caught her reflection in the armoire’s surprisingly unspoiled mirror; this was the first time he’d seen her in something other than one of her velvet walking suits with the abalone buttons, and she looked lovely as ever in her simple but elegant royal-blue skirt and white blouse edged in a matching shade of blue. She even had on a different hat – a white, broad-brimmed affair trimmed with red, white and blue ribbon in honor of Independence Day.

Though Lucy smiled indulgently as he ogled her, she let his daze pass unremarked. “Your march?” she prompted.

Brought back to the present, Fred grimaced as he realized exactly what he was humming. _Seventy-six trombones led the big parade…_

For a split second, the reporter paused and considered whether he should answer her question or defer his explanation for another time. Because he knew that if he opened his mouth, the entire story would come tumbling out, and though he was planning on eventually revealing his romantic disappointments, he hadn’t expected to go into one of them right this moment. But why shouldn’t he tell her now? Nearly a full month had passed since they’d started seeing each other, and although it was a Friday, it was also a national holiday, so the reporter had no event to cover and the actress did not have a performance that afternoon or evening. Instead, they had just finished a leisurely breakfast in bed and were now planning to partake in the July Fourth festivities around town, simply for fun. So now was as good a time as any.

Shaking his head at the timing – why did these potentially precarious exchanges always seem to crop up in the mornings? – Fred turned to face the actress. “No, it’s not my march,” he confessed with a rueful smile. “That is _Seventy Six Trombones_ , the personal anthem of Professor Harold Hill of River City, Iowa. Professor Hill is a fly-by-night traveling salesman turned legitimate bandleader who founded a musical curriculum he calls the “think system” – a new way for the sons of farmers to play instruments without having to learn to read music first. Professor Hill is a persuasive and charismatic man… and as you can probably guess, a bit of a scoundrel. I don’t altogether dislike the man, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call him a trusted friend, either.” He took Lucy’s hands in his. “But if it wasn’t for him, I never would have met _you_.”

The actress blinked, and confusion entered her smile. “How do you figure that?”

Without further hesitation, Fred told her all about his two visits to River City, how he’d traveled there ostensibly to cover the public demonstration of a revolutionary new teaching method, but really to expose a man he suspected to be nothing more than a two-bit swindler. With the power of the press, he hoped to stop a charlatan in his tracks before he caused real harm – the scant but disquieting tidbits he’d managed to glean on “Professor” Harold Hill’s exploits in Illinois indicated there was something very fishy about the fellow, indeed. However, once again, the reporter had written his story too prematurely; on both occasions he’d traveled to that small Iowa town in the middle of nowhere, he discovered a silver-tongued but sincere bandleader and family man who’d truly, if accidentally, stumbled on to something wonderful. While the reporter refrained from outright admitting his attraction to Marian Paroo, he didn’t gloss over the librarian’s presence in the course of events that unfolded, nor did he attempt to mask his frustration and disappointment that she’d given her heart so irrevocably to Harold Hill. Lucy listened to his tale quietly and attentively, and though her hands never so much as twitched in his, the reporter knew from her pensive, appraising look that she understood perfectly well everything he was leaving unsaid.

But she still had a question for him after his story came to an end – or rather, an observation: “You still didn’t explain how all that led to meeting me.”

Fred laughed with a lightheartedness he didn’t fully feel. “Oh yes, of course! When I returned to the office in the aftermath of the Easter Sunday tornadoes, my editor wanted a bucolic little paean to small-town Iowa after all, to give people something to restore their good cheer. The article I wrote was such a hit with the public that ever since then, I’ve been assigned to cover all the cotton-candy stories – carnivals, teas… and on one occasion, a new musical called _No, No Nanette_.” As the actress beamed at him, he felt his spirits resurging. Returning her grin, the reporter tightened his grip on her hands and tugged her closer. “And _Tea for Two_ knocked _Seventy Six Trombones_ right out of my head… ”

For the first time since he’d started speaking, Fred paused for a moment, uncertain. He was just about to add that likewise, Lucy van der Hoeven had obliterated all traces of Marian Paroo Hill, before ultimately deciding that it would reveal too much, too soon. Instead, he leaned in so she wouldn’t notice how serious his expression had become, though his low, heated tone betrayed him as he whispered into the now-trembling actress’s ear the same thing he’d told her the first night they were together, “And you’re the only woman I’ve ever made love to that I wasn’t trying to forget someone who was stuck in the back of my mind… ”

Although her equally heated reactions were fast encouraging him to elaborate, Fred couldn’t get another word out after that, as Lucy’s mouth covered his. And when her shaking but avid fingers found the buttons on his suit-coat and then the buckle of his belt, he wasn’t at all inclined to speak any further – _his_ fingers were too busy impatiently unfastening her blouse.

They didn’t make it out of the hotel until lunchtime.

XXX

Later that evening, around the time Fred normally would have been waiting at the stage door to meet Lucy after her performance, the two of them were cozily ensconced in an alcove amidst a grove of elm trees in Bates Park. Though they sat quite a bit closer than propriety would have allowed and the reporter’s arm was openly wrapped around the actress’s waist, they were hidden sufficiently enough from view that they deemed it permissible to take such liberties in public. Even if the two of them were in a more visible location, few people would have taken issue with this scandalous tableau, as everyone in the vicinity was currently gazing skyward, riveted to the vibrant bombardment of light and sound as fireworks exploded and flashed in the heavens above.

In his supreme contentment, Fred couldn’t help reflecting how vastly different things were from the last time he found himself concealed in a recess of trees with a woman he’d wanted. Although barely four months had passed, his awkward tête-à-tête with River City’s librarian in Madison Picnic Park seemed almost like a scene from another man’s life. Had he really been so wretched over the loss of Marian Paroo Hill that he was prepared to make overtures to a woman who was not only very happily married, but also with child? Fred could hardly believe he’d been so reckless, and now that he’d found the true love of his life, he recoiled with embarrassment at the memory of his previous almost-indiscretion. Fortunately, a prudence even he hadn’t realized he possessed – or perhaps it was some higher power looking out for him – had made the reporter hold his tongue until the opportunity to make a complete and utter fool of himself passed him by.

Yet Fred was far too pleased with his current circumstances to wallow in his own blunders. Instead, he found himself wondering, with the same amiable curiosity as one would ruminate about the affairs of well-liked acquaintances, if Professor Hill and his missus were once again tucked together in that alcove watching their own community’s bombastic paean to Independence Day. Perhaps the River City boys’ band had just finished performing a rousing holiday concert, and now the bandleader was taking a well-earned respite with the librarian and enjoying the fruits of his latest success… as well as reflecting with quiet joy on what the future held for them. Marian Paroo Hill would be about six months along at this point, bearing her now-visible condition with as much pride and grace as she ever carried herself… and _her_ eyes gleaming with tender elation as her husband leaned even closer and placed a gentle hand on her rounded stomach.

Fred smiled at the image, feeling nothing but the benevolent congratulations he’d tried so hard to feign in the music professor and librarian’s presence before. Admittedly, this imagined scene did inspire a twinge of wistfulness in the reporter, but only because he knew that he would never have the opportunity to experience the same sweet anticipation with the woman who was nestled in his arms, the woman he hoped to build his own life with. But it was a very slight twinge, because although Fred would have been prepared to fully embrace fatherhood should Lucy have ever found herself in the family way, there would always have been a part of him that remained ambivalent about how much of his career and dreams of travel he’d be forced to give up in order to create the stability their offspring would need to thrive. So on the whole, he was relieved that children were not a possibility, because this time around, he’d have to accept it – he could not fathom letting Lucy slip out of his life the way he’d relinquished Bess, and with their insatiable appetite for lovemaking, they might just have ended up a clerk and housewife with a passel of kids, after all! Although he had never been much of a religious man, Fred couldn’t help wondering if Providence made Lucy especially for him, knowing all along that he wasn’t the fatherly type… until he remembered the scar on the actress’s stomach, and surmised maybe it was the other way around: that _he_ had been made for Lucy.

Either way, it didn’t really matter. The reporter was a hundred times better matched with Lucy van der Hoeven than he would ever have been with Marian or Bess, and he thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t ended up with either of the women he’d spent so many months and even years bitterly bemoaning their loss.

“Oh Fred,” Lucy sighed as she nestled even closer to him. “You really deserve a lot better than this – covering these piddling little events for the paper, I mean. Your talent is wasted on this kind of drivel!”

Startled out of his reverie – but in a thoroughly pleasant way, for once! – Fred smiled with real delight and tightened his arm around the actress’s waist. “Just like _you_ could do so much better than _No, No Nanette_?” he gently teased.

He felt her shrug. “I make a decent-enough living at what I do now, and I relish the challenge of turning such insipid material into something a little more sublime.”

Fred chuckled. “As do I,” he agreed. What he didn’t tell her is that the opportunities to return to more serious reporting were there, but he hadn’t leaped up to take them as he did in the past. In fact, he’d actively avoided such hard-hitting assignments when they were handed out, as he did not want to be derailed from his plans of seguing into a position that would allow him to travel the country and possibly the world with the woman he loved while still maintaining his own financial solvency. As ever, it was far too early to bring Lucy into his confidence about this still rather pie-in-the-sky notion, or even hint at the direction of his thoughts. So he simply shrugged and added, “Like you, I’m perfectly content to be just where I am.” He turned to face her with a grin. “Especially since it allows me to spend more time with you, while you’re in town.”

Lucy had been beaming warmly at him in return, but when he tacked on the qualifier he was always so careful to add whenever he alluded to his feelings for her, a brief but heated flash of _something_ – annoyance? disappointment? apprehension? – lit up her intent gaze, and her smile faded. Fred got the distinct impression he’d made yet another a misstep, and felt himself grow irritated that he couldn’t be certain just what he had said to unsettle her. Was she simply too mercurial and inscrutable a woman for even a man whose livelihood depended on digging beneath people’s civil veneers to fathom, or were his emotions once again muddling his usually keen discernment?

The reporter didn’t know anymore, nor did he particularly care to spend a great deal of time pondering this conundrum. Wanting nothing more than to rekindle the romantic mood between them before it was irreparably damaged, Fred shoved his pesky sense of pique aside and immediately changed the subject. “So,” he said with resolute cheer, “do you think I’d be more attractive with a mustache?”

Just as he’d hoped, Lucy was disarmed by this sudden shift in the conversation. After goggling at him for a second, she burst into laughter. “Certainly not! Mustaches are terribly smarmy artifices – they make even the most honest man look like he’s up to no good.”

Relieved to have avoided yet another pitfall he never saw coming, Fred joined her in laughing. “Well then, it’s a damn good thing I shaved mine off a few weeks before our paths crossed!”

Lucy’s arch expression softened into affection as she lightly ran a finger over the smoothness just above his upper lip. “Well, I might have made an exception in this one instance. But even then, I wouldn’t have done _this_ at all… ” She leaned in to graze the mustache-less dent of skin beneath his nose with an exquisitely soft kiss.

Fred’s heart started hammering wildly, and he had to stifle the inclination to pull the actress back to him and crush his mouth against hers. Somehow, he managed to continue flirting in the same, lighthearted vein. “And it would have been very sensible of you not to do that, especially here and now. Because I would have _had_ to kiss you back” – he demonstrated with a hard but brief kiss – “and in Iowa, it’s against the law for a man with a mustache to kiss a woman in public.”

Once again, Lucy was overtaken with mirth. “Is it, really?”

“Yes, it really is,” Fred said earnestly, before allowing the impishness to sneak back into his countenance. “And I’ll tell you another thing: according to the dictates of this venerable, stiff-necked state, kisses may last for no more than five minutes at a time… ” He kissed her again, this time long, slow and deep.

“Does the law apply to all kisses, or just the ones in public?” the actress asked breathlessly when their lips finally parted.

“I don’t know,” the reporter admitted, just as breathlessly. “But it’s one law that I’d be glad to break with _you_ , over and over again… ”

Before he could so much as lean in to prove this assertion, Lucy’s mouth met his again, and as she ardently demonstrated her agreement, Fred was once again stunned with delight at having found a woman who was so gleefully willing to flout propriety right along with him. If they were in her room back at the hotel, they would have been lost in a haze of lovemaking for the next several hours – and perhaps the rest of the night. However, since they were still in public – and well aware of what an obscenity charge would do to their reputations and livelihoods – they weren’t about to let themselves get _that_ carried away.

So their protracted – and possibly illegal – kiss eventually came to an end. But the passion that drove the reporter and actress’s behavior did not dissipate once they reluctantly ended their embrace and retreated to a more respectable distance from each other. If anything, it was only heightened, now that their preferred channel of expressing such strong emotions was completely closed off to them at present. If Fred had been a young man on the threshold of maturity and if Lucy had been a young woman on the cusp of awakening, this would have been the moment they made their declarations and perhaps even pledged themselves to one another. They were just as head over heels as any pair of teenagers, regarding each other with sidelong glances filled with desire, wistfulness and apprehension, longing to say so much more to each other but not daring to speak a word. Wise or foolish, right or wrong, they had both fallen hopelessly, desperately in love.

But Fred knew it wasn’t as simple as opening their mouths and letting the words tumble out. Love had scarred them both too deeply for either of them to risk ruining the dynamic of a perfectly splendid liaison with such indiscreet and hotheaded sentiments – which, though genuine, would have prematurely been given voice due to their mutual frustration at not being able to tumble into bed together right this particular moment. And so the atmosphere between them was growing increasingly strained and awkward, the air uncomfortably heavy with things left unsaid and feelings not conveyed.

However, just because they both had a calamitous romantic past, didn’t mean a future together was entirely out of the question. It might have been the moonlight talking – or in this case, the brilliant fireworks currently illuminating the heavens – but Fred believed that if he continued to press gently but steadily forward, he might one day be able to simply open his mouth without preamble and tell the woman he loved exactly what was in his heart, with no concern that the depth of his devotion would drive her away.

While they hadn’t quite reached that day yet, he had to start _somewhere_. The reporter reached out and took the actress’s hands in his. Though her fingers trembled slightly, her eyes steadily met his and her countenance was remarkably composed – almost serene, even. 

Fred swallowed nervously. “Lucy,” he began, in a voice that was surprisingly level, “I want to tell you something. Something important… about me, I mean. Something I’ve never told any other woman.”

The corners of her lips turned up in a small smile as impassive and enigmatic as a sphinx. “You’re going to tell me about _her_ , aren’t you?”

The reporter blinked, confused. “Do you mean Marian Paroo?”

The actress shook her head and lowered her lashes, shielding her lovely but penetrating green eyes from view. “No,” she said softly. “The woman who kept you from coming to the stage door the first night you saw my performance.” Her voice grew even quieter. “The woman whose ghost makes you so carefully weigh every word you say to me whenever we _aren’t_ making love.”

Once again, Fred was stunned by Lucy’s keen grasp of the situation, and he wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed by her candor or grateful for her understanding. Deciding to choose the latter, he tightened his grip on her hands and said in a rush of relief, “That’s why I wanted to tell you about her – so her ghost _won’t_ linger between us any longer.” He paused, and gathered his thoughts. Bess had been a much greater presence in the vast but sparse landscape of his love life – whereas Marian had merely been a stalk of corn, his high school sweetheart was a whole field of it. Consequently, there was so much more to say about her and, while Fred wanted to be completely forthcoming, there were so many potential pitfalls he also wanted to avoid. “Her name was Elizabeth Appleton – Bess, everyone called her.”

Lucy smiled and nodded. “That’s exactly the sort of name I imagined she would have.” Her eyes met his again, and he was both amazed and reassured to see curiosity had overcome trepidation. “I take it she hails from Charleston, Iowa, just like you?”

Fred nodded. “Her family’s farm bordered ours. Although as you must know yourself, everyone’s an acquaintance in such a tiny town,” he chuckled. “So Bess’s immediate proximity made no difference to me… at least, not at first. We were in the same year at school and I thought no better or worse of her than I did any other girl. I was far too focused on my dreams of becoming a musician and traveling the country when I grew up that I had no inclination to make cow’s eyes at farmers’ daughters. Until one day, when I was about fifteen years old and heading home after the last day of school, the loveliest voice I’d ever heard was singing _Sumer Is Acumen In_. At the time, I was passing by the Appletons’ farm, but whoever was singing wasn’t visible. Intrigued, I edged my way closer and closer to where the sound was coming from – an open kitchen window – and there was Bess, completely alone in the room, her corn-colored curls tied up in a messy bun and pink cheeks smudged with flour as she rolled out a piecrust, gaily singing her heart out.”

The reporter smiled, lost in the memory. “It wasn’t just the timbre of her voice that captivated me, but the emotion she put into the lyrics. My mouth fell open and I stood there, watching her. I had never seen this side of her before. No one in our town had. Bess had always been a pretty girl, but her looks were overshadowed by her sweetly diffident demeanor and modest attire; she was always winning awards in school for things like ‘model deportment’ and ‘cleanest hands.’ Seeing her loud and disheveled like this was” – he broke off and took a deep breath not just to steady his nerves, but to buy himself time to think of a word that would convey how life-changing this moment was without making it seem like he was still pining – “a revelation.”

Lucy smiled and squeezed his hands. “I’ll bet it was,” she agreed, with no trace of sarcasm.

Still, Fred tried his best to rein in his gusto as he continued, this time sheepishly, “I don’t know how long I was standing there watching her, when she finally looked toward the window and saw me. Naturally, she gasped in dismay at my unwarranted intrusion into her privacy. But she was ever polite, and after I stammered out an apology and explanation – as well as paying several graceless but earnest compliments to her voice – she kindly told me it was her own fault for causing a disturbance loud enough to attract the attention of passerby, and even thanked me for my compliments! But as brave a face as she was putting on in glossing over my rudeness, I could tell she was deeply embarrassed. I felt awful, that I might have discouraged her from singing ever again. To atone for my prying, I told her all about my composing, which was _my_ secret I’d been keeping from everyone, and even hummed a few bars of the latest tune I was working on. Not only did Bess’s smile finally reach her eyes, she told me I ought to play my march for everyone in town during the Fourth of July celebrations. To which I countered that with a voice like hers, _she_ ought to sing in the church choir. We both blushed and laughed, and then an awkward but pleasant silence fell between us. Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I said a courteous goodbye and continued on my way home.”

Lucy giggled. “You were always the gentleman, I see.”

Fred smiled pensively and lowered his gaze. “Well… I also needed some time alone to come to terms with the entirely unexpected direction my life had just taken. Because I knew after that day, Bess and I were going to be inseparable. And we were – though with Bess being so shy, our friendship grew slowly and gradually. At first, we merely walked together to and from school every day. After a month, she allowed me to carry her books for her. It wasn’t until a full year later that I mustered up the courage to ask her to go steady with me. During the course of that year, as we were getting to know each other, I never ended up playing my march on the Fourth of July, and she only ever sang in front of me. But through her gentle yet constant encouragement, I eventually entered my march into the contest that won me a scholarship to the University of Iowa, and through _my_ encouragement, she not only joined the church choir during her senior year of high school, she eventually became the director!”

Fred’s smile faded. “But while Bess had achieved the pinnacle of her musical ambitions, I hadn’t even gotten started on mine. Bess not only knew this, she expected it – it’s in the nature of men to dream bigger than women, she said to me.” His smile returned briefly when the actress scowled mutinously and shook her head. “Bess was a very traditional-minded girl – her greatest dreams were to become a wife and mother. And just as she supported my dreams, I wanted to return the favor… even if I wasn’t all that enthusiastic about being a _husband_ , let alone someone’s father. Not that I didn’t want to get married someday,” the reporter quickly added, lest Lucy think he was a stubbornly confirmed bachelor, “but I was still so young, barely on the cusp of manhood, and I couldn’t help feeling like there was so much more waiting out there for me than the prosaic family life that was everything the girl I loved ever wanted.”

Fred paused again, trying to think of just the right words to explain things in a way that was honest, yet would not completely repel the woman whose good opinion he’d come to count on professionally, as well as personally. But when the pause dragged on a bit too long, Lucy gently prompted, “What happened when you went off to college?”

“We wrote letters,” he replied, deciding he may as well just lay it all out and let the chips fall where they may – though he had a hard time looking Lucy in the eye as he continued, “As you can probably guess, Bess wrote me far more often than I did her. But I remained faithful to her in body, if not in spirit – though it was awfully difficult now that I was surrounded by women who ‘dreamed bigger’ than a humble farmer’s daughter from a tiny town in the middle of nowhere.” He sighed. “But it wasn’t enough. While I stayed true to her, I had changed too much, and I knew it. When I came home for Christmas, it soon became clear to her as well that a subtle but indisputable distance had grown between us. Bess, for all her small-town naiveté, had always been very clear-eyed when it came to discerning what was truly in a man’s heart. Shortly before I was due to leave for the spring semester, she broke our engagement.” He swallowed the lump that was starting to form in his throat. “That _did_ surprise me – although I wanted more out of life than Bess could give, I was nowhere near ready to let her go.” He swallowed again. “I was furious, heartbroken, embarrassed… so I kept the news of our broken engagement to myself, not wanting to deal with my family’s deep disappointment while I was still trying to come to terms with my own.”

Fred now turned away from Lucy completely, not wanting to see the sympathy in her gaze turn to aversion at what he had to say next. “When I got back to campus, I no longer had any compunction about associating with the girls who caught my fancy.” He swallowed a third, and then a fourth time. “But none of them were Bess. And none of them, no matter how beautiful or clever or alluring they were, could make me forget her.” Lucy’s warm, slim hand soothingly stroked his. But Fred still couldn’t look at her, even as the words continued to tumble out: “By the time I stepped off the train that summer after the conclusion of my freshman year, I was a much more seasoned and thoroughly chastened man. So I went straight to Bess’s house and begged her to take me back. At first, she was understandably reticent to receive me, but when she realized that I had changed, she threw her arms around me and said exultantly, ‘ _This_ is the Fred I said goodbye to last fall – I was hoping he’d come home to me again someday!’ So our engagement was back on – and neither of our families was ever the wiser about our estrangement, as Bess had also kept everything to herself. And in that moment when I had crushed her to me and was holding her for dear life, I realized just how sweet and wise and unselfish she’d been to set me free, and fell in love with her all over again. Even though Bess couldn’t quite understand my dreams of becoming a musician, she understood my heart in a way that none of those worldly, glittering college women ever could.”

The reporter forced himself to look at Lucy, who was regarding him not with scorn, but rapt attention. “But it wasn’t enough, was it?” she asked, her gaze both sympathetic and knowing.

Fred shook his head. “We had one wonderful month together before my dreams of becoming a musician came crashing down around me. In the middle of July, I received a letter informing me that my scholarship was being terminated – I spent a little too much time carousing during the spring semester, so my grades were no longer up to par.” It was hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice as he went on, “I asked my parents for a loan, just for a semester so I could work on improving my grades enough to win back the scholarship, but when my mother grinned and exultantly declared this turn of events Providential – now I could get a job as a clerk in town, and Bess and I could settle down right away and get to work on giving her grandchildren! – I knew financial assistance from _that_ corner was out of the question. Bess, of course, didn’t have the money to spare, and besides, I wouldn’t have taken a single cent from her even if she’d been an heiress. However, if she was pleased or even just relieved by the death of the college career that had almost cost her the man she loved, she hid it well – I only ever sensed from her sympathy and disappointment on my behalf.”

Once again, the reporter looked away from the actress. “And how did I repay the woman who loved and stood by me?” he asked softly. “That August, I scraped together all the money I had, hopped a train to Des Moines, and took the first position I could find in the big city – a reporter for the _Register and Leader_.” He sighed. “Even then, Bess continued to stand by me – though she did plead for me to come home in the first letter I received from her soon after I’d left. I wrote back immediately, reassuring her that as soon as I’d gotten myself established in a stable career, I’d send for her and we’d be married without delay. Neither she nor our families were thrilled by the prospect of our building a household in the big city, and I knew I was once again at risk of losing the woman I loved, but I just couldn’t _take_ the idea of staying in Charleston for the rest of my life.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” Lucy said with quiet but real vehemence. “I had to get away from Pilger – I had to be where the world was _moving_.”

Fred’s head snapped up to look at her. “That’s exactly it. And that’s something that Bess, for all her insight, could never fully understand.” He swallowed, but this time, he didn’t turn away. “But she _tried_ , which meant the world to me. I honestly intended to do right by her – my plan was to work for a year in order to save up enough money to return to college, stay just long enough to get the experience and credentials I needed to embark on a musical career, and then, once I had finally achieved my life’s ambition, marry Bess and give her the family that was _her_ dream. But as they say, the best-laid plans of mice and men… ” He chuckled grimly. “I fell in love again – with my job! As it turned out, not only did I have a knack for being a journalist, I found the work challenging, engaging and, most importantly, significant. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was exactly where I should be, that my reporting was doing something _good_ , something the world needed. By complete happenstance – or perhaps it was Providence, after all – I’d hit upon a career that allowed me to make a far better contribution to humanity’s progress than my mediocre musicianship or, God forbid, eking out a monotonous living as a store clerk in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere.”

The reporter’s zeal was once again tempered with regret, and his shoulders slumped. “But I changed too much again. Bess broke our engagement a second time when I came home for Christmas. And this time, our families knew about it.” His shoulders slumped even further. “When I got back to Des Moines after the holidays were over, I drowned my sorrows with women even more glittering and enchanting than the girls I’d known in college. But as much as I reveled in my newfound freedom, I hated myself even more. When I came home for Easter at my mother’s insistence – or rather, visited my family in the town I used to call home – I didn’t dare darken Bess’s doorstep. Not after everything I’d done. I intended to grit my teeth and brazen my way through this visit with polite smiles and meaningless small-talk, and then return to my true home. But little did I know my mother had invited Bess over for dinner! How on earth she convinced her to come, I’ll never know… I suspect it was probably a joint effort between families to get us to reconcile.” He scowled. “I still don’t know whether I should thank or throttle my mother for interfering like that. Because even then, as much as my heart yearned for my high school sweetheart, I knew reconciling with her would only delay the inevitable. But at the time, I missed Bess so much, and she missed me, too – as soon as we were thrown into each other’s company again, neither of us could let the other go. So our engagement was back on. Unfortunately, even as we both tried to keep our relationship going over the next couple of years, we eventually had to accept that our dreams were too different to allow for enough compromise that would enable us to build a life together. Bess couldn’t bear the idea of leaving her family and the home she loved, while I couldn’t stomach giving up my life in the big city. So when Henry Harper started pursuing Bess, a good five years after we first got engaged, she finally ended things between us for good.”

“I bet your mother must have loved _that_ ,” the actress said with a grimace.

Fred laughed, and it felt like a weight off his shoulders that he was able to do so, even as painful as it was to recall his family’s reaction. “My mother came very close to disowning me after Bess married Henry Harper. And not just my mother – my sisters, too! I was banned from Easter dinner that year and every year thereafter, which suited me just fine. Though inexplicably, my mother continues to insist that I come home for Christmas and, ever the dutiful son, I accede to her wishes,” he sardonically concluded.

Lucy raised an eyebrow at him. “And where was your father in all this?”

“Oh, somewhere in the fields, most of the time – right up until the day he died of a heart attack,” Fred said with a shrug. “My dad was an upstanding citizen – faithful to his wife, hardworking, decent and honorable in his business transactions.”

Both of her brows now quirked. “But for all that, he was a distant cipher who knew nothing about the innermost hearts of his own children,” she correctly surmised.

Fred nodded. “Rightly or wrongly, my father was far more focused on providing for his family and ensuring they learned the skills they would need to assume their ultimate stations in life – the boy, taking over the family farm, my sisters, becoming farmers’ wives. Getting to know his own children was secondary, and he was a taciturn man by nature, so I can count on one hand the number of times he so much as clapped me on the shoulder in a gesture of approval. And so my mother ruled the roost at home, my father only getting directly involved when it came time to mete out the discipline she’d determined.” His lips curled in a smirk so labored it was almost a sneer. “Mainly, switching the not-so-golden boy for one transgression or another – practicing my trumpet or composing marches when I should have been weeding the garden, pounding the beefsteak, pumping water for the cistern, the endless myriad of chores required to keep a farm running. For I was not only the eldest of four children, I was the only son and heir apparent… at least until I abandoned the family in favor of Des Moines. So when my mother passes away, the farm will go to the next child in line: Fanny.”

The reporter’s expression softened. “Fanny is the only reason I don’t make excuses not to come home for Christmas. Even though she’s a year younger than I am, she was more like a mother to me than my actual mother. If it weren’t for Fanny covering for me whenever she possibly could, I would likely have been switched for indolence many more times than I already was! Only Fanny understood why I had to leave Charleston – why I had to let Bess go.” He chuckled, the bitterness creeping back into his tone. “But then again, Fanny is also used to being a disappointment to the family. Though she dutifully became a farmer’s wife and settled close to home, she was only able to produce one grandchild, a girl – and girls are a dime a dozen in my family. Fortunately, my other sisters, Anna and Susan, were able to pick up the slack by producing all the grandsons my mother could ever want – ” Fred broke off and looked ruefully at Lucy, whose expression had once again grown inscrutable. “Forgive me, I’ve said too much – ”

The actress pulled him into a warm hug. “ _Never_.”

Fred smiled, even as he shook his head and insisted, “Honestly, I didn’t mean to sound so spiteful. My childhood wasn’t _really_ as awful as I made it out to be. My parents were decent people who meant well, even if they were a little tone deaf in some areas – ”

This time, Lucy silenced him with a kiss. “I understand exactly what you mean,” she said reassuringly. She paused, but only for a split second before revealing, “My childhood was much like yours; my parents were decent people who did their best to raise a conventional, upstanding daughter, forgetting to take any of _her_ dreams into account as they planned out her entire life for her.” The actress sighed. “Well, my mother did, anyway. She was very much like yours – she staunchly believed that my girlish dreams of embarking on a theatrical career were something I’d eventually grow out of, once the boys started to come calling.” Her expression darkened. “She figured that as soon as I got married and started popping out children, I’d be just as content with that prosaic lot as she was.” Now her expression softened. “But my father and I were peas in a pod. Before he met my mother, he was an acrobat in a traveling circus – so _he_ never treated my dreams like they were an odd phase I would eventually grow out of.”

Fred’s eyes widened, and without thinking, he did the one thing he promised himself he wasn’t going to do, and asked a leading question: “How on earth did he end up in a place like Pilger?”

Lucy shrugged. “How else? He saw my mother in the audience at one of the circus’s performances and fell so in love that he gave it all up to marry her.” She laughed. “Not that he had an easy time of it, mind you – it was quite the change of career, going from acrobat to rancher! But he persevered, proving his devotion to both her and her father by undertaking an arduous two-year apprenticeship in the family business. As you can imagine, my grandfather was initially skeptical, but he was impressed by my father’s determination. It also helped that he had no sons to take over for him, or even son-in-laws, as my mother was an only child, and she was just as stubbornly set on having this traveling acrobat as he was on being with her. So my grandfather gave my father a chance to prove himself, and after he’d gotten through only a single year of service, he was allowed to marry my mother.” She giggled. “I came along shortly after – so shortly after that as soon as I was old enough to do the math, I strongly suspected that my parents weren’t _quite_ as patient in waiting for each other as they ought to have been. Though of course my tight-lipped mother slapped me for having the audacity to wonder aloud if that was indeed the case!” Her smile faded. “But while their marriage was a happy one, they were never able to have any more children, and my father died shortly before I graduated high school. Both my mother’s parents had also passed away by then, and my father had no living relatives that my mother knew of – or would tell me about. So my mother’s hopes regarding not just her posterity, but her entire family, were bound up entirely in me… ” The actress trailed off and gave the reporter an apprehensive sidelong glance, as if she was afraid she had said too much – or was about to.

Normally, Fred would have asked another question. His instincts were screaming at him to say something, _anything_ to keep Lucy talking and not let this long-awaited opportunity to learn a whole lot more about the woman he loved slip through his fingers. But this was personal, not business. He was out of his depth – he hardly dared breathe, let alone turn the conversation into an interrogation!

But perhaps he was being too discreet, after all. Lucy was looking expectantly at him, her expression growing gradually more annoyed as he remained silent.

“Is something the matter?” Fred finally asked mildly.

Just as he’d suspected, that was exactly the opening the actress needed. “Must you be such a damn gentleman all the time?” she burst, tossing her head vehemently for emphasis. She had shed her patriotically beribboned hat the moment they’d achieved the relative privacy of this alcove, so the movement further scattered her already rather disheveled tresses. “Why won’t you just _say_ what you’re thinking, what it is that you really want?”

Although her reaction was not surprising, her keen perception of his character continued to unnerve the reporter… and when he breathed in the sudden influx of jasmine released by the shaking of those raven-colored curls, his pulse began to race a little faster, as it always did whenever he caught a snatch of her bewitching scent on the air. But he was not so knocked off balance that he couldn’t maintain the steadiness of his voice even as he earnestly replied, “Because I promised I’d never try to take from you what you didn’t want to give me.”

Lucy looked as if she wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or frustrated by his circumspection. “That’s an awfully diffident attitude for a reporter to have,” she wryly remarked. “Especially when confronted with a reluctant interviewee!”

Though his pride smarted a bit at that remark, Fred shrugged. “I’m not on the clock right now.” But because he was a bit peeved, he couldn’t help adding, “Besides, I never ask questions I already know the answers to.”

“Are you always so certain that you know the answers to those questions?” the actress countered, crossing her arms and raising an adversarial eyebrow at him, as if settling in for a debate. “How do you even know if you’re asking the right questions?”

Despite his progressively increasing sense of pique, the reporter was too old and too canny to be led into firing back a heated retort – especially when he had a sneaking suspicion of just what she was up to. This was Lucy’s way of trying to tell him more about her past without having to make the definitive decision to do so. He’d seen it many times before in the course of coaxing a reluctant interviewee to talk; she needed him to push her into confession for her conscience to countenance such vulnerability on her part. Giving the actress a measured look, Fred pondered whether it was wise to encourage her sense of self-deception by playing the Grand Inquisitor role that she was attempting to foist upon him. Especially since, he ruefully acknowledged, his assessment of the situation could be wrong. Perhaps she wasn’t quite encouraging him to actually wheedle any stories out of her – perhaps this was simply an enticing morsel of bait she was dangling before him in her attempt to tease out a little more of that deep but unspoken fondness she had to have known he was harboring for her. River City had taught the reporter the danger of being too certain of his own perceptions; going into a situation with a preconceived angle was a good way of getting lost in a blind spot.

Still, whatever her motives, Lucy was tacitly giving him _carte blanche_ to pry as much as he pleased, and not even Fred’s sense of gallantry could hold out against such a tempting invitation indefinitely. Especially since there was so much he wanted to ask her. But for all her bravado, the actress might still have been unprepared to discuss what he most wished to know about; Fred had the hunch he was only going to get one question tonight. Fortunately, one question was all he needed.

“Lucy,” the reporter began, taking her hands in his in an effort to soften the tactlessness of his question, the hard question that went straight to the heart of why she resisted even as she urged him to press forward, “who was the man who broke _your_ heart?”

Lucy immediately paled – clearly, she hadn’t been expecting him to so forthrightly inquire about _her_ ghosts. While she didn’t pull her hands out of his, she did hastily turn her gaze heavenward. Although the fireworks had long since died away, she stared resolutely at the empty sky as she forced a smile and said with equally strained cheer, “Well, you _do_ know how to pull the rug out from under a girl, don’t you, Fred?”

He let go of her hands and nodded grimly. “That’s exactly what I expected to hear.” Though Fred had been right after all, there was no hard-edged triumph in his voice, only the resigned disappointment of a man who’d been beaten down a few times too many. He supposed he could have given the actress what she wanted – a declaration of love, perhaps? – or at the very least, what she expected – the sweet but insubstantial flatteries that made her heart flutter while promising absolutely nothing. But once again, his stubborn sense of principle made him take the hard road that, more often than not, proved unrewarding. Turning his gaze upward, the reporter joined the actress in staring at the vast, monotonous darkness of the universe. There was no moon tonight, not even a tiny sliver, and the haze of city lights blotted out any stars that would otherwise have been visible. A gloomy but fitting panorama for the man who, though sitting next to his best gal amongst a bustling metropolis of people on a sultry summer evening, remained intolerably, relentlessly, inescapably _alone_.

“Simon Sennett,” Lucy finally said, very quietly. “His name was Simon Sennett.”

Floored, Fred turned to face her. Though he did not prompt her to continue, he made no attempt to stifle the sheer avidity in his expression.

Lucy paused, uncertain. “Have you heard of him?”

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Fred could not place it. He shook his head.

“Not that it matters – he died four, maybe five years ago,” she said with a listless shrug. “Or so I heard, anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Fred said automatically, and then mashed his lips together. She was still teetering at the precipice of disclosure, and interrupting could drive her back into silence.

Fortunately, his remark didn’t derail the conversation. The actress gave another listless shrug, though the pain in her eyes was stark as she explained, “He did it to himself. Drank too much. A common affliction among people like us.”

The reporter nodded understandingly – he’d lost a few colleagues that same way, and there were times he wondered if he was taking a little too much solace in the bottle, himself.

Lucy sighed. “I met Simon a long time ago, not long after I arrived to New York City. I was barely twenty-one, all alone in the world and determined to become an actress.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know it’s a common story – the naïve, fresh-faced ingénue travels to the big city to chase pie-in-the-sky dreams of fame and fortune. But in my case, it was true. Though I wasn’t quite so naïve as all that – I fully expected it would be an uphill struggle to success, if I even managed to succeed at all! But my prospects in Pilger were so dismal that it was well worth taking the risk, so I scraped together what meager savings I could and did exactly what I should have done after my father passed away: purchased a one-way train ticket out of the Midwest. As soon as I stepped off the train, I went right to work, showing up at any and every audition I could find. I was willing to take any role, no matter how insignificant.”

Lucy sighed again. “But as I quickly learned, getting a job in the theater largely depends on knowing someone who can get you through the door. Being a country bumpkin fresh from the farm, I knew absolutely no one. Though I was pretty and possessed raw talent, I lacked the polish and experience directors preferred – small-town greenhorns like me were a dime a dozen, as agent after agent informed me. So I was dismissed… or propositioned.” She wrinkled her nose. “While I was prepared to do almost anything to get my foot in the door, I wasn’t about to resort to outright prostitution! But after I’d spent nearly a month getting absolutely nowhere, I wondered if that’s what it was going to take. I was running out of money, and if I didn’t find a job soon, I was going to be out in the streets.” She swallowed as if trying to dispel a lump in her throat, and her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “Because I couldn’t go back to Pilger – I just _couldn’t_ … ”

At this point, saying something was warranted, lest Lucy break down and lose the thread of her tale completely. But even if speaking would have caused her to end the conversation, Fred didn’t have it in him to remain an impassive observer when the woman he loved was visibly hurting. Taking the actress’s hands in his, he lifted them to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Fortunately, you didn’t have to.”

Lucy took a shaky breath and smiled gratefully at him. “No, I didn’t. After yet another morning of fruitlessly wandering the theater district in search of a job, I stopped at my usual restaurant for lunch. It was an insignificant, well-worn, out-of-the-way place – much like Bill’s, actually. But the food was surprisingly decent and, more importantly, cheap. Perfect for down-and-out hopefuls like me. And by that point, I was literally down to my last dollar, so even though I hadn’t had a decent meal in at least three days, all I ordered was a malted. I sipped it slowly, trying to make it last as I considered my options. Clearly, I wasn’t going to be able to find a job in the theater. So what, then, could I do? I couldn’t be a secretary, as I didn’t know how to type, nor had I ever learned shorthand. I couldn’t be a cook, as I burned dinners more often than not. I couldn’t take care of children, as I had absolutely no experience in that arena. But I could clean, and I could sew fairly well. Perhaps I could find work as a seamstress or a laundress or a maid? Or perhaps I could travel a little further north to get a job in a factory, which would wreck my looks and possibly even my health, but at least keep me out of beggarhood or prostitution. As I was trying to decide which of these bleak occupations would be the most bearable, an impeccably-groomed man approached my table and politely introduced himself. I estimated him to be at least ten years older than I was, possibly fifteen.” Her lovely green eyes lit up, much in the way Fred surmised his must have as he recounted the late-spring afternoon he fell in love with Bess. “But it didn’t matter how old he was – he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen in my life! Yet it wasn’t just his pleasing physical features and simple but elegant suit that made him so fetching, it was the way he carried himself. He moved and spoke and _looked_ with quiet but unshakeable confidence; this was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and didn’t hesitate to go after it.”

Lucy blushed and averted those brilliant eyes of hers, and Fred had to repress a smile as he recalled his own embarrassment over the way he’d gushed about Bess. He knew she feared he might find it unpleasant to hear the intensity of her feelings just as he’d harbored the same concerns when telling her about his first love, and to reassure her he felt no such sting, he gave her trembling hands an encouraging squeeze.

Though the crimson faded from her cheeks and she smiled, the actress continued to gaze into the distance. “Simon Sennett both intrigued and alarmed me. Normally, I would have ignored him until he gave up and left me alone. But when he offered to buy me lunch, I was too hungry to say no – though I promised myself I wouldn’t talk any more than was absolutely necessary. However, he was so charming and well-spoken that I couldn’t help being drawn into conversation with him. After he coaxed me into revealing not just my name but where I was from and why I’d come to the city, he beamed as if I’d said exactly what he was hoping to hear, pulled out a card confirming that his name really was Simon Sennett, and explained that he owned a small theater which housed a moderately popular vaudeville troupe. It just so happened that his troupe had an opening, and I had just the look he’d been searching for.”

She laughed, and to Fred’s surprise, her laughter held no element of the cynicism that often tainted her mirth. “There I was in this unremarkable hole in the wall on ‘The Street,’ desperate for a job after weeks and weeks of failure, and my dream was suddenly being handed to me on a silver platter! Naturally, I was very suspicious of this seemingly too-good-to-be-true offer. When I coolly asked him what the audition process entailed, he grinned and said it was happening right now – and so far, he liked everything he was seeing. I was stunned. No formal audition? No polish or experience required? Was he putting me on? Simon grinned and explained he only ever hired greenhorns because he wanted performers who were completely untainted with no bad habits to unlearn, performers he could build into successes from the ground up. As for formal auditions, he told me in a frank but gracious manner that in vaudeville, the main thing the audience was interested in was a woman’s physical charms – in other words, they come to see the gorgeous girls in the skimpy costumes!”

Lucy laughed that wonderful laugh of hers again, a full, rich sound. Fred savored these rare moments when she let loose with unfettered joy, just as he relished it when she moaned his name with boundless adoration as he made love to her. Her happiness was the most beautiful sound in the world to him. Though it was terribly sentimental of the reporter, he couldn’t help himself – he lifted her hands to his lips to kiss them again.

“Mother would have been appalled that her daughter was contemplating such a scandalous and unladylike career,” Lucy continued, so thoroughly immersed in her reminiscences that she didn’t even bat an eye at his ministrations, though her smile grew a little wider and she leaned a little closer to him. “And I suspect that even with – or perhaps because of – his experience in the business, my father would have been less than pleased to see me in a venue where talent was secondary to erotic appeal. However, Simon assured me that vaudeville was more than just a peep show – talent in a female performer was always a nice surprise to the audience, and if it did turn out I had some, I could go very far in this business, indeed. There was just one catch, he said, his face darkening slightly. It was my family name – it didn’t suit. Would I be averse to changing it? Once again, I was stunned – somehow, I hadn’t ever considered doing that, and wondered if that was part of what had been holding me back. Yet it wasn’t something I could just immediately acquiesce to without reservation, because it was _my_ name, as well as the only remaining link to my father. But I knew from Simon’s quiet but steely gaze that however respectfully he’d broached the subject, keeping my real name was _not_ negotiable, and I wasn’t about to throw away a promising job over such a minor quibble. So I asked what he had in mind. He suggested ‘van der Hoeven’ so quickly I wondered if he’d whipped it up the moment he laid eyes on me! I had to bite my lip so I wouldn’t burst into laughter – or tears. Lucy _van der Hoeven_? It was outlandish and overwrought and overdone… and a memorable attention-getter, Simon pointed out, as if he could read my objections in the stricken expression I couldn’t hide. It was just the right thing to say, and though I still wasn’t in love with the name, I was sold on it. No one could ever say that Lucy van der Hoeven was a dime a dozen!

“So I shook Simon Sennett’s hand and joined his vaudeville troupe, going right to the theater with him that very afternoon. Within a week, I performed in my first-ever show. I was never a curvy woman, but I immediately captivated the audience with my ‘dark curls, elfin face and lithe body’ – Simon’s words, not mine,” the actress said, the zeal in her eyes softening into a gentle glow for the briefest of moments – clearly, these were cherished compliments – before the animated determination of the high-flier once again took hold of her expression. “But now that someone had finally given me the opportunity to get my foot in the door, I was determined to prove I was more than just a pretty face! As it turned out, I’d inherited my father’s grace and flow of movement, so I made the audience laugh and cheer even as they wolf-whistled. But I didn’t try to sail through on raw talent alone; I worked as hard as I could, slowly but steadily honing my craft under Simon’s expert tutelage. As I soon discovered, beneath his courteous and affable exterior he was a demanding and temperamental man who could be difficult to bear. He’d reduced all the girls in the troupe, including me, to tears on one occasion or another, but we always forgave him for his moments of unflinching brusqueness because we knew they weren’t borne of cruelty or heartlessness. He was simply a perfectionist dedicated to getting the best performance out of us, whatever it took. I greatly admired his drive and perseverance” – here her eyes once again shone and her voice grew quieter – “and it wasn’t long before I’d fallen head over heels in love with him.”

To Fred’s surprise, Lucy cozied right up to him and laid her head on his shoulder. He expected that just like everyone else who had ever revealed heartbreak to him, she’d shrink away and retreat into herself, now that she was coming to the most excruciating part of her story. But he certainly wasn’t complaining – that the actress would seek his embrace in the midst of baring her soul was tremendously encouraging. Slipping his arm around her waist, the reporter planted a soft kiss on her curls as she continued, “From the very start, I sensed Simon was attracted to me, though he was just as sweet and charming to all the ladies in his employ as he ever was to me, so I never gave his heated looks and smiles much credence whenever they were aimed in my direction. Besides, we had little time to spare for such extracurricular indulgences; we were both single-mindedly focused on our careers. But that was about to change. It took me a good two years to finally work my way up from silent ensemble to company headliner, and not long after I’d achieved that pinnacle, Simon turned the weight of his attention and persistence on pursuing _me_.”

The actress let out a laugh that once again held an acrid note of cynicism. “At first, I continued to disregard his advances as a lighthearted game, just as I’d always done before. Although it was getting harder and harder to resist his advances, now that he made no bones about the fact he wanted me, I wasn’t going to just fall right into his arms. Even as an ingénue, I was wary about getting too entangled with a man I worked so closely with, and given that I’d earned every bit of my success through honest toil, I didn’t want to give a shred of ammunition to the more jealous members of our troupe who snidely whispered behind my back that I’d only gotten to where I was because I’d gone to bed with the director.” She paused, and her voice grew so quiet that Fred had to strain to hear her, even though their heads were close together. “But most of all, I couldn’t bear the idea of the man I loved thinking that I was _too_ easy. Because I wasn’t a blushing rose, not even way back then. And while Simon may have seen me in some extremely revealing getups, he hadn’t seen _everything_.”

Lucy sighed, and her voice got a bit louder as exasperation colored her tone. “But Simon was not a man who could be put off indefinitely. Whenever he wanted something, he wouldn’t rest until he’d gotten it… and there was precious little he’d ever failed to get! So I finally told him point-blank late one evening after a show, when we were alone together in my dressing room and everyone else had gone home for the night, that if he was harboring any illusions that I was as pure and untainted in the bedroom as I was in the theater, he was in for an unpleasant surprise, because I’d already been thoroughly and completely deflowered. And it _did_ surprise him, confirming my suspicions that he attributed my aloofness to the natural reticence of the untouched virgin. He even smiled skeptically, as if he supposed this was some elaborate ruse to inflame his ardor! So I opened the sash of my dressing gown and showed him the scar and stretch marks on my lower stomach.” A note of self-satisfaction entered her voice. “Took the smile right off his face. I thought he’d turn away from me in disgust. But he didn’t” – her voice grew nearly inaudible again – “instead, he leaned in and kissed me. Very lightly, on the lips. Softly and sweetly at first, holding me gently by the shoulders as if he was afraid he might break me. As I gradually relaxed beneath his touch, he pulled me close and his kisses grew deeper and more passionate, awakening in me an intense _need_ that I’d never felt before. This yearning grew so intolerable that I was soon clinging to him with every inch of my body, begging him without words to sate this terrible hunger he’d aroused in me. But to my disappointment, he eventually ended our kiss. As I gaped at him in both awe and dismay, he apologized for not believing me, and said he was doubly sorry that the scoundrel who’d beaten him to the punch didn’t have a clue what he was doing in the bedroom. Because if I had been properly made love to the first time around, I’d know exactly what I’d been missing out on, and it wouldn’t have taken us three _weeks_ to get to this point – let alone years!”

At that, Fred couldn’t contain a derisive snort. While an experienced man naturally took pride in his prowess when pleasing a woman, there was such a thing as being too boastful, and this Simon Sennett had an ego rivaling that of Harold Hill!

“Yes, he sounds terribly full of himself, doesn’t he?” Lucy agreed with a smile and roll of her eyes. “But Simon had such a way about him that he not only managed to make such arrogant remarks sound charming, but downright endearing. And when he started to kiss me again, I was completely undone. Having finally gotten what he wanted, Simon took me straight up to his rooms, which were right over the theater… and it was just as wonderful as he promised. Having been party to a man’s climax before, it was easy for me to fathom why _he_ was so eager to go to bed, but for the life of me I could never understand why the prospect of lovemaking excited most of the women I knew, as well. I was stunned to discover the sheer amount of pleasure it was possible for a woman to experience when a man made love to her… and downright indignant to realize just what I had indeed been missing out on! So from then on, Simon and I made love as often as we could arrange to be together. I was over the moon to be with a man who made love to me with all the passion and enthusiasm I never realized I’d wanted so badly, though I often feared he’d eventually grow tired of me, now that he’d made his conquest. But not only did Simon remain just as attentive, effusive and adept a lover as he’d been the first time we went to bed together, he continued to take an active interest in my career, pushing me to develop my talents to the fullest. He was _perfect_ … ” Her face fell. “Almost.”

“He never brought you breakfast in bed,” Fred said quietly.

Lucy smiled sadly. “He never stayed the whole night. Nor did he ever allow me to stay long after sunrise when we were in his rooms – he was just as concerned about too much talk circulating among the troupe as I was. So I was more than willing to keep our affair hush-hush, though of course everyone around us quickly guessed what was going on. That’s not what bothered me.” She paused and pressed her lips together, as if trying not to cry. “Simon was not the first man I was ever with, even if he was the first man who ever made love to me, so I should have known better… ”

“You discovered him with someone else,” Fred grimly cut to the chase, before he could bite his tongue. It may have been impudent of him to sum it up so brusquely, but he could not countenance hearing any further rationalization for the behavior of such a self-centered rogue, no matter how wonderfully he’d made love to her.

The actress nodded and buried her face in the crook of his neck, and he heard it anyway: “Several ‘someone elses’… I _should_ have known! Because for all his caresses and blandishments regarding my talents both in and out of the bedroom, he never actually told me he loved me, let alone made me any promises. Not that I needed to be his wife – I was in absolutely no danger of getting ‘in the family way,’ so it wasn’t necessary for our union be officially sanctioned by a minister.” Her shoulders sagged. “I didn’t even need him to tell me that he loved me. He was so generous with his affections that it didn’t matter he never actually got around to saying the words,” she insisted, though it was clear from her plaintive tone that the lack of declaration _did_ rankle. “But Simon always had a keen eye for pretty girls with latent talent. I wasn’t the first ingénue he’d plucked from obscurity, and I certainly wasn’t the last! Not only did the majority of his protégés go on to develop solid careers, they also learned quite a bit about the art of lovemaking beneath his expert ministrations.” She shook her head in disgust. “After witnessing a few discreet but disquieting flirtations and glances between Simon and some of the other actresses, I started paying much more attention to the gossip, and soon learned that _every_ woman in our troupe had gone to bed with our director at one point or another – including those he hired after we’d started our affair! So my initial suspicions that he took especial pleasure in being the first to ever make love to a girl were proven correct, as well as my suspicions that he usually lost interest after he’d made his conquest. I suppose I should have been flattered that he was so taken with me he continued our affair after our first night together, but I was so upset to find out I wasn’t the only one he was making love to that I could only feel betrayed.”

“Well, how else could anyone have reasonably expected you to feel?” the reporter sympathized, stroking her hair. There was quite a bit more he wanted to say, but it would do little good to hurl heated invectives at the scoundrel who’d so thoughtlessly used her, so he held his tongue. It _did_ ease his heart a little that Lucy sighed as if he’d said just the words she’d been aching to hear, and leaned into his caress.

“Yet even so, I hesitated to confront Simon about what I’d overheard, because I’d never actually caught him doing anything beyond the pale with any of the other women. Besides, we spent more nights together than we did apart, and whenever we were together he made love to me with his whole heart and soul – how could he have possibly found the time or the energy to dally with anyone else? Perhaps I was mistaken about all the chatter. So I tried to forget about it.” She sniffed. “But as it turned out, I _wasn’t_ mistaken. One afternoon, almost exactly six months after Simon and I first started seeing each other, I arrived at the theater earlier than usual and discovered him kissing our troupe’s newest acquisition.”

The actress started to tremble in Fred’s arms, both of which were now wrapped firmly around her. “I was so furious, I lost complete control of myself. I ripped that hussy away from Simon and pushed her out of the building, warning her that I’d kill her if she dared to come back. Then I turned to the man I _thought_ was mine and mine alone and rushed at him, intent on doing, well, I don’t know what, but something that would hurt him as much he’d hurt me. But he caught me by the wrists and pinned my arms to my sides, engulfing me in a bear hug I didn’t want but wasn’t strong enough to escape from. All I could do was burst into tears.” She stiffened in Fred’s embrace. “He simply _held_ me, saying nothing at all and caressing my hair as I cried, as if he was merely a sympathetic bystander to my outburst – and not the cause of all my misery in the first place! I would have laughed at his sheer audacity, if I weren’t so heartbroken. I don’t know how long I cried, but it wasn’t until my tears finally ran out that he let me go. I was still angry, but too exhausted to do anything more than glare at him. And to his credit, he gazed at me with a sheepish expression.”

“Did he apologize?” Fred asked, though he figured he probably knew the answer to that question.

Lucy shook her head vehemently. “Oh, he gave me a wonderful song-and-dance about how important my happiness was to him and how he’d never meant to hurt me and how he’d fire that hussy on the spot, but he never actually said the words ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘forgive me.’ He did beg me not to quit – literally, he fell to his knees! – because by then I was the top draw for the troupe and could easily have found work elsewhere.” Her lips curled in a sneer. “What I should have done was quit right on the spot. But I felt indebted to him – I owed my success entirely to his taking a chance on me. And I _loved_ him. Despite his betrayal, I still wasn’t ready to let him go. But I wasn’t about to surrender my dignity, either – I refused to be part of his harem, even if I was the undisputed queen of it! So I told him I would only stay on the condition that he stopped going to bed with the ingénues he brought in. I expected him to rant and rail about how unreasonable it was of me to hold him to such a standard, but to my astonishment, he agreed without so much as a spark of protest in his eyes. That night, to cement the reminder of just what he stood to lose both personally and professionally should he stray, I was as dazzling and alluring as I could be to the audience. It was one of our most successful nights yet – the audience clamored for encores three times! After the show finally ended, Simon kissed me in front of the entire cast backstage, and then he whisked me back to my flat and made love to me for the rest of the night.”

Lucy spread her hands apart. “So there you have it: I was now firmly entrenched as the star of the troupe _and_ as Simon’s acknowledged lover. I should have been on top of the world!” Her shoulders slumped. “But I wasn’t. Because when I woke up late the next morning, he was gone – even though there was now no longer any good excuse for a man in love _not_ to linger. As much as I tried to revel in my triumph, I couldn’t help getting the feeling that to him, I was his meal ticket first and lover second, and now that he’d expertly placated his prima donna, his work was done for the time being.” She hung her head. “Serves me right for getting involved with my director… and for being such a lovesick fool in the first place!”

Fred wanted to protest, but as he’d been burned by love himself, all he could do was pat Lucy sympathetically on the shoulder and try to move the conversation past recriminations. “Did Simon keep his promise?”

“Oh yes – to the letter of the law!” Lucy sardonically assured him. “Though as I later found out, he thoroughly violated the spirit of it by going to bed with actresses who belonged to _other_ troupes.” She shook her head in disgust. “See how cunning he was? But part of me knew all along that was likely to happen – a leopard doesn’t just change its spots. Simon was an incorrigible flirt, and he continued to chat up all the ingénues who joined our troupe, though I saw not a whisper of those significant exchanges that had troubled me before. But he clearly chafed even under that slender restriction, and started spending fewer nights with me and more nights carousing who knows where. Still, his conscience must have troubled him, because he started drinking more and his temper got even worse. It didn’t help that the nights of him whispering lovely blandishments in my ear as he petted and pleasured me for hours were growing few and far between – the evenings he did visit me were more likely to end with him swearing and storming off, because all that drinking was starting to affect his, er, _performance_ in that arena.” Her voice turned sad. “Of course, I did what any woman in love would do: ignored these failures and reassured him that he was the best lover I’d ever had. Unfortunately, he could tell I was growing steadily more disillusioned with our affair because try as I might, I was never a very good pretender in matters of the heart. And deep down, I couldn’t deny I felt the exact same vague but nagging sense of discontent that troubled me back in Pilger – once again, I was trying desperately hard to make success of a life that just wasn’t going to work out in the long run.”

Now Lucy began to look downright uncomfortable, though she bravely soldiered on: “Things finally came to a head one evening after a show when we were having dinner at the restaurant we first met. The most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen in my life came up to say hello to Simon. Normally, I would have been jealous and out of sorts, but she smiled and talked to me just as gregariously and I warmed to her pretty quickly, even as I wondered if Simon was sleeping with her. She had such a magnetic, captivating way about her that somehow, I couldn’t find it in me to be annoyed when Simon invited her to eat with us.” She scowled. “And I suspect that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. But just in case I snapped out of my unusually docile mood, he quietly refilled my wine glass all throughout dinner. Unfortunately for him, he overestimated how much liquor I was capable of tolerating; by the time we were finished with our meal, my head was spinning and I couldn’t stand upright without wobbling dangerously on my feet. But I did catch the knowing smirk he and that woman exchanged before they each wrapped an arm around my waist and escorted me out of the restaurant. I would have protested that I could manage just fine on my own, but I was thoroughly distracted when it turned out that mastering the previously simple act of walking took all my concentration. Even after we reached my flat, I was still so muddled with intoxication that I wasn’t the slightest bit alarmed when the woman didn’t leave after playing her role in getting me safely home; she settled right in and made herself just as comfortable as Simon, as if she intended to stay for awhile.”

Lucy squirmed and turned away from Fred. “I only remember brief snatches of what happened after that. They laid me down on the couch and my eyes immediately closed. Simon’s mouth traced my ear in a steady stream of heated whispers, telling me over and over again how beautiful I was, how much he wanted me, and that he was going to see just how many times he could make me come. As he whispered all these things to me, the bodice of my dress was loosened, and then it fell away. The rest of my dress soon disappeared as well. Simon continued to whisper to me, his hot breath tickling my neck as a mouth covered my breast and a hand slipped beneath my drawers to stroke the inside of my thighs. That mouth gradually kissed itself lower and lower down my body… a finger slipped inside of me… then a tongue… ” Her shoulders trembled and even though she was still facing in the opposite direction from the reporter, she raised her hand to cover her face. “I was so far gone that I didn’t even question how Simon was managing to do all those wonderful things with his mouth and hand at the exact same time as he was whispering in my ear. It had been ages since our lovemaking was this good; I thoroughly enjoyed every bit of what I thought _he_ was doing to me.”

The actress’s hand fell away from her face, and clenched into a fist. “It wasn’t until I woke up the next morning and remembered that _she_ had been in my flat with us last night. Of course, they were both long gone by then. Yet as furious as I was about the intrusion, my head hurt so much and my body felt so heavy that all I could do was lie on the couch in a daze – as disquieting as it was to realize what must have happened, last night felt surreal, as if it was all a dream.” Her voice grew strained. “It wasn’t until I finally mustered the energy to get up and take a bath that I discovered what happened was definitely _not_ a dream. In the washroom mirror, I caught sight of all these red marks, beginning at my neck and trailing all the way down to my thighs; incontrovertible proof of just how much I’d been _enjoyed_ by that harlot. I knew they weren’t Simon’s love-bites because he always took care never to leave a visible mark no matter how amorous a mood he was in – my costumes were so skimpy that marks left in all but the most intimate places on my body would have showed, and we girls were supposed to be suggestive but not trashy. But he had allowed this stranger – this _woman_ to – to _ravish_ me with no such consideration, let alone _permission_ – ”

Lucy abruptly broke off and her shoulders started to shake violently. As her hands came up to cover her face again, Fred clasped her shoulders. “What he did to you was vile,” he said, his own voice shaking with rage and dismay as fury coursed through his veins. Normally, when people revealed such harrowing violation to him in the course of an interview, he strove to maintain a courteous and professional distance even as he offered his sincerest sympathies for their ordeal. But given that this was entirely personal, he had absolutely no compunction about adding, “You said Simon was dead? Because if he isn’t, he’s going to be – I’ll hunt him down and kill him myself!”

The actress let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “Oh Fred,” she sighed, turning in his arms to nestle into his embrace. “You really are one in a million!”

Fred remained quiet as he held her, but his mind was buzzing furiously. He wanted to tell Lucy that from the moment she came into his life, she was the only woman for him, now and forever. He wanted to pull her to her feet and take her not to that squalid hotel room, but home with him. There he’d make love to her all night, looking into her eyes as he made her come again and again so she would know she was the only one. In the morning, he’d bring her breakfast in bed and after he fed it to her, he would take out the ring he’d been keeping in his bureau – it had finally arrived from Fanny just last week – and make that promise official. But he couldn’t do any of that, not yet. First he had to hear the rest of the story, or it would eat at him.

“Lucy,” he whispered into her hair, “what happened after that night?”

“I disappeared,” she whispered back. “As much as I wanted to make my wrath fully known, I couldn’t face him. Because I knew how the confrontation would go. He would act stunned and bruised by my accusations, as if _I_ was the one who wronged _him_. And as ever, he would have a hundred excuses for his behavior. He would point out that he only specifically promised never to go to bed with any of the ingénues he personally hired. He would insist that his creeping impotence was due to boredom and not liquor, and that we’d needed to liven things up between us.” The anger crept back into her voice. “He would make me feel like the most selfish and unreasonable creature in the world for wanting him to remain faithful to me when he was actually _with_ me.” She sagged in his arms. “I just couldn’t bear it. As soon as I got out of the bath, I threw together a suitcase, abandoned my flat, and went to a hotel – I didn’t want Simon to come looking for me when I missed that night’s performance, and I needed time to recover and consider my options. After lying low for a day or two, I decided the best thing I could do was to get out of the city for awhile, so I went out and auditioned for a traveling troupe – by then, I was established and well-known enough that I had no trouble getting a legitimate job immediately.”

When Lucy paused, Fred figured that was the end of her story, and was marshaling up the nerve to ask her to come home with him when she continued, “For the next year, I traveled up and down the Eastern Seaboard, performing with my new troupe. Back in New York City, I was always being approached by directors, actors and even audience members who were interested in going to bed with me, but of course I remained staunchly faithful to Simon. So it came as no surprise that I continued to be approached by men when I was on the road. I flatly rejected advances from the actors I worked with – I may have been a lovesick fool, but I’d learned _that_ lesson, at least! But the men who approached me after shows were a different matter, so whenever I felt that spark of attraction in return, I gave right in. After all, I was a free woman!” She sighed. “But none of those men were half as good as Simon. Given that there seemed to be so few men who cared or even knew how to properly make love to a woman, I remained celibate most of the time.” Frustration entered her voice. “If I could have managed it, I never would have gone to bed with a man again, but Simon had awakened appetites in me that couldn’t be stifled indefinitely. So from time to time, I accepted a few invitations – though I made sure to expect absolutely nothing from any man but for him to take what he wanted while giving as little as possible in return. That way, what little pleasure I did receive from time to time came as a lovely surprise.”

Fred scowled, hating that life had taught Lucy such cruel lessons about men and love, and wondering just what it was she saw in _him_ that she deemed worthy of confiding things she had never told anyone else. He also couldn’t help wondering, this time with an uncomfortable twinge, just how many of his previous lovers had put on a good show of enjoying themselves but ultimately remembered him as an uncaring and unremarkable liaison. Even though he’d never used any woman so terribly as Simon did Lucy, he’d had absolutely no qualms about thinking about the ones he’d really wanted but couldn’t have the whole time he was engaged in the act, and now that he’d finally had the privilege of making love to a woman he loved with his whole heart and soul – and not just once or twice but every single day for nearly a month straight – he realized just how complex a woman’s pleasure could be to arouse and achieve… and just how lackluster his performances with previous lovers must have been in comparison, despite all the gentlemanly airs he put on about striving to achieve his partner’s release as he built toward his own. In short, being in love had made him a better lover – and the reporter couldn’t help wondering, this time with a smile, if Harold Hill had experienced this same transformation with Marian Paroo.

But what Lucy had to say next wiped the smile right off his face. “I held out for as long as I could, but after a year had gone by, I couldn’t take it anymore – I had unfinished business with Simon to complete. So I left the troupe and returned to New York City. The city is big but the theater district is small, and he still frequented the same restaurant, so he was easy to find. As soon as I walked in the room, his face lit up like some long-lost relative had unexpectedly died and left him a million dollars.” She snorted derisively. “But the first words out of his mouth were a cool and casual: ‘I knew you’d come back someday.’”

Even though her face was still buried in his shoulder, Fred struggled to keep both his expression and tone nonchalant as he asked, “Did he say anything about that night?”

She shook her head. “Neither of us did. We both knew why I’d left, so there was no point in dredging up the past. And we both knew why I came back. There was no pretending – as soon as he’d paid for our dinner, he took me right to his flat. He made love to me all night… and it was wonderful. And when I woke up well after sunrise, he was still sleeping next to me.” Her voice, which had gone all dreamy again, deflated. “But when _he_ woke up, he regarded me with a placid smile, gave me a peck on the cheek, and told me to drop by the restaurant again the next time I was town – as if we were mere acquaintances having a bit of fun together! I felt even worse than if I’d never come back at all… ”

“Oh, Lucy,” Fred sighed, both exasperated and sympathetic, and hugged her closer.

“I know,” she said miserably. “I shouldn’t have gone back. That very same day, I found another job that took me even further away from the city. This time, I stayed away for a good two years. But in the end, I went back yet again – I just couldn’t stay away for good. After two years of celibacy punctuated by more brief and disappointing affairs, I was desperate to be made love to – and he was the only man I knew who could do the job.” She laughed despondently. “I know it sounds perfectly awful for a woman to be saying such things, let alone _doing_ them. But I was able to justify my own selfishness because there was a small part of me that continued to love him, despite everything he had taken from me… which is probably why his making love to me satisfied me in a way that no other man could. But it was also why it hurt so much afterward. I was caught in this unrelenting trap for four more years… until one day, about five years ago, I returned to New York and he wasn’t at the restaurant at his usual time. I showed up for dinner three whole days until someone finally mustered up the nerve to tell me what happened. I can understand why everyone hesitated to break the news to me at first – when I found out he died, I was beside myself with grief. What would I do without him?” She paused, and somewhat surprisingly, her voice brightened. “But then a funny thing happened – over the next several weeks and months, I discovered that my desire had died right along with Simon. For the next five years, I turned down every invitation I received without the slightest pang of regret. Those awful, inconvenient appetites that had brought me far more pain than pleasure had completely disappeared. I was finally free… or so I thought.”

Lucy raised her head to look Fred in the eye. “But then I met _you_. When I first saw you staring at me as I took my bow on opening night, it all came rushing back, as if it had been waiting for this moment. I was terrified, and I fought against it for as long as I could – just as you fought not to come to the stage door to meet me after the show.” She raised her hand to cup the reporter’s cheek. “I’m so glad neither of us succeeded in winning out over temptation, in the end. This summer with you has been one of the happiest times of my entire life.”

While Fred was, first and foremost, a man of words, he often found himself at a loss for them when it _really_ counted. All he could do was pull Lucy to him and crush his mouth against hers. But perhaps a wordless demonstration of passion was exactly what she wanted in response, because her mouth immediately parted beneath his and, helpless against each other’s charms, their mouths remained joined together much longer than propriety or the law would have allowed.

XXX

However, when they finally managed to make it back to Lucy’s hotel room sometime around midnight, they did not pounce on each other as soon as the door was closed behind them. Instead, the actress headed straight to the washroom and the reporter to the armoire, the two of them stoically and separately getting ready for bed as if they were a long-married couple instead of a besotted pair still in the first flushes of their romance. Though they had walked hand in hand the whole way from the park alcove, looking to all the world like a pair of carefree lovers, their stroll had been unusually silent. They had both retreated into themselves, which was not unusual after such a momentous outpouring, especially for a man and woman who both fiercely clung to their hard-won independence. So Fred was not surprised or even dismayed by the subdued atmosphere between them. Their intimacy had deepened substantially, progressing leaps and bounds in the space of a single evening, and though the reporter still didn’t know the story behind the scar on the actress’s stomach – or whether she had a child somewhere out there in the world that she had given up or perhaps was taken from her – he mustn’t be greedy. He wasn’t about to risk pushing the woman he loved back into her shell by demanding full disclosure of that particular tragedy right on the heels of everything she’d revealed already, which by itself was almost too much to digest in one sitting.

Besides, the reporter now knew enough about the actress that he could tentatively start putting two and two together. Given the timeline, she must have gotten her scar back in Pilger. Was it a ghastly souvenir of a failed marriage? Or was it from something even worse? Lucy had made it scrupulously clear that Simon Sennett was the first man who ever made love to her, and that going back to Pilger was not an option even if she ended up starving in the streets. Could she have endured the unthinkable, followed by the wholly undeserving ignominy of bearing an out-of-wedlock child? Fred’s fists clenched – he couldn’t bear to fathom such an awful idea. But it would certainly explain why Lucy expected so little consideration from the men she encountered, even from the men she fell head over heels for. Whatever had happened to her back in Pilger, the reporter’s admiration for her gutsy determination to achieve her dreams increased even more – not many women would have had the strength or the courage to escape such a horrible situation and remake life completely on their own terms.

And the fact that Lucy _could_ fall in love even after the suffering she’d endured was an encouraging sign – there must have been something or someone good in her life that caused some small part of her to cling to a tiny sliver of hope that true love _did_ exist, and if she were lucky, she might find it for herself someday. It was the same shred of wistful longing that Fred continued to hold close to his heart, despite his romantic disappointments and his propensity toward cynicism, a tendency that was not inborn but had steadily taken hold over the years due to the nature of his job and the inevitable loss of idealism that occurred as a man grew older and realized he couldn’t remake the entire world in his own image of what was just, honorable and right. The best he could hope for was to find a place where he was able serve some greater good and, if he were lucky, he might also find a companion to share in the joys and help bear the sorrows of existence.

Lucy emerged from the washroom just after Fred had finished fastening the trousers of his pajamas – although he would have eagerly made love to her, he had no intentions of overcrowding her tonight. Not only was she wearing her plainest and billowiest nightgown, she seemed vaguely glum and out of sorts, so he deemed it wise to give her a wide berth… at least until tomorrow morning. However, he did give her a chaste goodnight kiss after the two of them climbed into bed, and to his relief, she didn’t spurn his gesture. On the contrary – she relaxed and slid closer to him, as if she had been waiting for just such a signal, and before he could turn his face away she was kissing him full and deep with passionate urgency. At first, Fred was too startled to respond with his usual enthusiasm, and before he could recover his wits, she abruptly broke apart from him. Though she said nothing, the wounded reproach in her eyes was crystal clear: _Do you not want me, anymore?_

He wrapped his arms around the actress’s waist before she could go too far away. “I want you just as much as I ever have,” he assured her. “I just thought that you might not want _that_ … at least, not right now.”

Lucy continued to regard him with a mixture of frustration and uncertainty. “If I _didn’t_ want you, I would have told you to go away.” Her lower lip started to tremble; she bit it and squeezed her eyes shut. “I want you more than ever,” she said in a small voice.

At that, Fred’s mouth immediately covered hers, and his hands went to the buttons down the front of her nightgown just as quickly as hers located the fastenings of his trousers. Normally, this would have marked the end of all conversation between them for quite awhile. But as he was slipping her out of the sleeve of her nightgown so he could give her shoulder a hard kiss, she asked, “Am I the only woman you’ve ever brought breakfast in bed?”

Fred paused in his ministrations. “No,” he admitted. He cupped her cheek. “But you’re the only woman I’ve ever fed it to.”

Lucy’s hands likewise stilled in undressing him, and one of them came up to cover his. “I’m sorry that Bess and Marian broke your heart,” she said softly.

He smiled, deeply touched by her concern – especially in light of the fact that compared to what she went through, his love life was a walk in the park! “Well, Marian Paroo Hill was merely an infatuation. She represented the unattainable ideal of a loyal, faithful and passionate companion – she was salt that wouldn’t have hurt so much if it weren’t rubbing into a wound that hadn’t fully healed. But like Bess, she was holding out for a devoted husband who would stay in the country and build a family with her. She also had her mother and brother to care for, and her work at the library. And by the time I met her, she had already found that fellow in Harold Hill. Had I not been blinded by jealousy – not over her, exactly, but more over how openly and warmly she loved the man of her choice – I probably would have gotten over that River City run-in a whole lot quicker than I did.” He shrugged. “Besides, I knew deep down that both Marian _and_ Bess deserved much better than I could have given them.”

Indignation colored the actress’s countenance. “I would say the opposite – neither Marian nor Bess deserved the exciting life they could have had with _you_.”

The reporter shrugged again, feeling curiously lighthearted and giddy. “We just wanted different things out of life.”

He waited for her to protest further, but she fell silent for a moment and regarded him with pensive eyes. “You don’t want marriage and a domestic life, but you _do_ want a loyal companion,” she mused, sounding a bit incredulous, like she wasn’t quite sure what to make of his unusual philosophy.

Now it was Fred’s turn to protest. “Oh, I’m not at all opposed to marriage to the right woman. I just don’t want it to lead to a monotonous, plodding life as a store clerk or similar raising a large brood in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere.” He sighed. “But I’ve never met a marriage-minded woman who didn’t want to settle into that kind of existence. The women who actively shun such domesticity don’t want anything to do with matrimony, and they’re as good at loving and leaving as any Casanova.”

“Yet you’ll take those kinds of women, anyway,” the actress observed, now looking downright skeptical.

His smile faded, and he gave her a measured look. “I’m a lonely man, Lucy. I’ll take what I can get – I certainly don’t have it in me to live a life of chastity while I wait for the right woman to come along.”

She blinked, and her mouth parted slightly. Her eyes were full of pity, which normally would have irked him. But somehow, he found that her searching gaze was making his eyes burn and that his own mouth was starting to tremble, especially when she plaintively asked, “Have you _ever_ made love to a woman you loved?”

Fred’s mask cracked, but this time, he allowed it as he looked intently at the woman in his arms. Though he hadn’t meant to spill the beans tonight, there was only so much a man could endure before the truth came bursting out of him. “Just once. It was you, Lucy. It _is_ you.”

The actress’s head tipped back and her eyes closed. “Oh, Fred,” she moaned, long and low, as if she had been waiting to hear him say those words to her for the longest time. Though she didn’t tell him she loved him in return, the reporter was far too overjoyed by her passionate reaction to his declaration that he refused to be disappointed by her lack of articulated reciprocation. Instead, he noted with a deep sense of satisfaction how warmly she opened herself up to his subsequent kisses, how continuously she moaned in ecstasy at his caresses, and how fiercely and possessively she clung to him as they made love for the rest of the night.


	5. To Reach the Unreachable Star

_When you see a guy reach for stars in the sky…_  
 _You can bet that he’s doing it for some doll._  
 _~Nicely-Nicely, Guys & Dolls_

XXX

A full month after that eventful Independence Day, Fred still didn’t know the story behind Lucy’s scar. Nor had she reciprocated his declaration of love.

Not that it was a terrible month for the two of them. On the contrary – the reporter and actress continued their delightful routine of covering events for the paper, sightseeing around Des Moines, taking their meals together in between her performances, making love with passionate abandon and falling asleep wrapped in each other’s arms at night. In fact, now that they had both thoroughly aired a few of their skeleton-filled closets and put some pretty substantial ghosts behind them, July was an even happier month than June had been.

Which was exactly why Fred was disinclined to rock the boat and potentially spoil this wonderful atmosphere between them. So after that night, he never told Lucy he loved her again. At least, not when she was conscious enough to hear it. More often than not, she fell asleep before he did, and as the reporter held the actress in his arms and listened to her deep, steady breathing, he whispered the words over and over again into her jasmine-scented curls until he finally drifted off, himself. It was ridiculously sentimental of him, but he couldn’t unring that bell; once the truth had burst out into the open, he could no longer keep a lid on his feelings the way he had before. It was much safer to give release to them when Lucy was insensate, lest he come on too strong and drive her away. Fred also hadn’t invited the actress to come home with him again, though he was getting increasingly weary of spending his nights in her cramped, dingy hotel room with the threadbare sheets and lumpy mattress.

Fortunately, Lucy seemed content – almost determinedly so – to simply enjoy the present for what it was. But Fred knew he was being more cowardly than careful. The actress wasn’t going to ask what he had in mind for the future – hell, she probably didn’t even expect there to be one when her show ended! It was high time he took another step forward. _No, No Nanette_ was due to close in Des Moines at the end of August, giving the reporter less than a month to make his move. He was running out of time.

However, while Fred knew what he had to do, he was still a bit stymied as to how he should proceed. There were important things he had yet to learn about Lucy, but he had already told her everything worth knowing about himself, so he no longer had an easy way of getting into such dicey conversations, short of asking the actress point-blank about her past. Whereas he usually had no qualms about being so brazenly inquisitive when he was faced with a reluctant interviewee, the reporter hesitated to pry out of fear of rubbing salt into a wound that might not be fully healed. And, truth be told, he wasn’t sure he had the heart to hear a story about yet another despicable man who’d mistreated and used her.

But there was nothing for it – he was going to have to be direct. So on Sunday morning, when he knew they had all the time in the world to talk, Fred gently stroked the scar on Lucy's stomach until she stirred.

“What time is it?” the actress grumbled, sounding a bit cross. But as her tone was always slightly irritable just after she woke up – especially as the summer mornings had grown increasingly humid over the past few weeks – he wasn’t put off by her less-than-cheerful demeanor.

“It’s nearly ten thirty,” Fred replied, dropping a kiss on her neck in an attempt to soften the coming blow. He continued to stroke her scar, and she didn’t flinch or stiffen in his embrace. But then again, what he was doing wasn’t out of the ordinary. He repressed a sigh – so much for gauging her receptivity beforehand! He was just going to have to lay it all out and let the chips fall where they may.

“By the way,” he said in what he hoped was a mild, off-handed tone, “how did you get this scar, Lucy?”

At that, Lucy did freeze in his embrace, but only for a moment. Then, to his surprise, she let out a laugh. “So you finally worked up the gumption to ask me that question.” She twisted in his arms until she was facing him – but she was _not_ smiling. In fact, she looked downright irate. “Took you long enough!”

Of all the reactions the reporter had anticipated, he’d never have betted that she’d take issue with his circumspection. Fred’s mouth fell open, and he goggled at her.

His astonishment only deepened Lucy’s sneer. “So how shall it go, this time? I’ll tell you another sob story about my wretched life, you’ll comfort me and make love to me and it will be just wonderful… and then you’ll clam right up again after that. But I see the wheels turning in your head, the way you look at me with calculation as well as fondness. You think I don’t know the way your mind works, but I do. I’ve seen the way you interview people and put together your stories. I’ve never met a man who danced around a subject as doggedly as you do – and for me, that’s really saying something!”

Though Fred was no longer confounded, he was still having difficulty fathoming that the woman who was an unparalleled master of ignoring the elephant in the room was attacking _him_ for taking things slow – and rightfully, in this instance! So he could only stammer, “What do you want from me, Lucy?”

“I want you to tell me what you want from me!” she exclaimed.

Although Fred had expected exactly that kind of petulant outburst, he didn’t leap to respond – even though he knew that hesitation would make things worse. But the question he most wanted to ask her was meant to be whispered tenderly into her ear when they were making love, not resentfully tossed at her because she forced it out of him when they were in the middle of an argument. Especially when he knew that her answer wasn’t yet likely to be the one he wanted to hear.

Indeed, Lucy’s scowl deepened. “See! You’re doing it again – considering your words very carefully. Do you think I’m some kind of fragile flower or naïve country girl who can’t take what you have to say? Just spill it, already!”

Fred sighed. He supposed he was going to have to start revealing his long-term plans concerning her if he had any hope at all of successfully steering this ship away from the looming wreck on the horizon. But annoyance at being compelled to speak before he was good and ready made his eyes narrow and his tone brusquer than he would have preferred as he replied, “All right, fine. First, I want to know how you got that scar. Second, I want you to come home with me tonight, and every night after this. It isn’t decent that you stay in this flea-infested dump any longer.”

“Ooh, an outburst of charity for the poor actress with the tragic past!” she said sarcastically. “How could a girl refuse such a delightful offer?”

“My asking you to come home with me wasn’t an offer of charity, it was an invitation,” he fired back. “An invitation that you turned down once before, so you can hardly blame me for not wanting to ask again too quickly after being refused!”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, how could you blame me for refusing it in the first place? Your ‘invitation’ was so loaded with qualifiers I could hardly take it as a grand romantic gesture!”

The reporter raised an eyebrow at her. “Well, even if you had taken it that way, would you have said yes?”

The actress’s steely-eyed gaze faltered.

“That’s what I thought,” he said with a brisk nod.

The actress’s expression hardened right back up as she likewise raised an eyebrow at him. “And is that really all you want from me – to stay with you, while I’m in town?”

“That’s all, for the moment,” he said coolly.

“That’s what I thought,” she said grimly. “You’ll check these two items off your list, and should my story about my scar meet your satisfaction, you’ll have yet another set of questions for me tomorrow. And then next week. And the week after that.” She bit her lip, as if steeling herself for something unpleasant, and gave him a measured look. “What are _those_ questions, Fred?”

Once again, Fred didn’t say anything. Neither did Lucy – she merely folded her arms and glared at him, waiting.

“I’m not in a position to ask you those questions yet,” the reporter finally admitted, grudgingly but honestly. “But despite what you might think, you’re not a game to me. And I’m not going to play this game with you any longer.” He got out of bed and grabbed his notepad and pencil off the nearby end table. “If you want to continue our conversation, you can come look me up at my apartment.” Once he finished writing his address down for her, he went to the armoire and retrieved a fresh suit. As soon as he was fully clothed, he gathered together the rest of his things and stuffed them into his suitcase.

Lucy watched the proceedings with a stormy expression, not saying a word until he started heading toward the door. “So that’s it? Now that you’ve issued your orders, you just walk out?”

Fred shrugged glumly. “I have nothing else to say.”

“Ah, yes – you’ve already ‘written the article,’” she scoffed. “The jaded reporter has seen and heard and done it all before, so he knows everything. He is particularly an expert on the female of the species… even though he’s _always_ been wrong, at least when it really mattered.”

Her words were a direct hit to Fred’s heart – he had let her in so completely that she knew exactly where and how to wound him. He might have admired her ruthless efficiency if he hadn’t been overwhelmed by a powerful wave of fury that somehow felt both red-hot and ice-cold in his veins. But he had seen enough of the actress, despite her attempts to stay aloof, to know exactly where and how to retaliate.

Dropping his suitcase, he whirled around to face her. Before his rational mind could catch up to him and still his tongue, he was already firing off a retort that was just as calculated to rile: “Well, I’ll grant that _you’re_ a difficult ‘female of the species’ for me to read because you’re so damn good at keeping a fellow at arm’s length. Quite the accomplishment for a woman who gives her body more freely to her lover than any gal I’ve ever met! Is that why Simon started going to bed with other girls? I can’t say I blame the poor guy for seeking comfort elsewhere, if you made love to him with all your soul but then chased him away whenever he got too close for comfort – ”

Before Fred could say another word, Lucy got up, marched over to him with blazing eyes and slapped him across the face. Although his cheek stung and throbbed quite a bit from her blow, he smiled at having gotten his own back and then some, and waited for her next rebuttal.

But that repulsive sense of triumph lasted only for about two seconds as he realized just what his petty yearning for vengeance had cost him. The actress turned, gathered up her robe from the sofa and walked away in icy silence, as if after having made her point, she’d completely washed her hands of him. Feeling a sickening sense of panic take the place of his fury, the reporter trailed after her until she reached the window and could go no further.

“I’m sorry, Lucy,” he said contritely. “I had no right to say that.” He laid his hands gingerly on her shoulders. She didn’t shake him off, but continued to stare stonily outside, so still and cold he might as well been pleading with the marble statue of Artemis in Mrs. Parkstone’s gardens. “Anyway, what right do _I_ have to ask anything of you? I’m a complete failure with women, good only for a night or two of fun. You deserve so much better than I could ever give you – ” A lump coalesced in his throat and made him pause for a moment. Still, now that he no longer had anything left to lose or gain, he figured he might as well get that final rejection over with. “So I won’t ask you anything, ever again.”

Lucy began to tremble, and then, as if a dam somewhere deep within her had burst, her slender frame shook with heavy sobs. When he tightened his grip on her shuddering shoulders, she violently shook him off. “Go away!”

But Fred couldn’t leave. Not like this. So he continued to stand there, his own eyes stinging as the harsh reality sank in: This would be his final memory of Lucy van der Hoeven. Not even in his most cynical moods did he imagine that things would come to an end between the two of them because he’d broken _her_ heart.

The actress whirled around, her entire expression filled with such intense rage that he flinched involuntarily and took a step or two backward. “Go away!”

Too beaten to argue any further, the reporter picked up his satchel and did just as she ordered.

XXX

Fred did not go home. Instead, he went straight to the office.

This was something he would have done on a Sunday, anyway, though not nearly so early in the day. But right now, he particularly needed the distraction of work. He wasn’t sure who he was angrier at – Lucy for insisting he spill absolutely everything he’d been holding back while resisting similar reciprocation in kind, or himself for making so many missteps with her – and he wasn’t in the mood to spend any more time ruminating over the matter. While the reporter acknowledged he’d gone just a little too far in treating the actress with kid gloves, he knew perfectly well that she would have found just as much fault with his behavior if he’d been a little more effusive in his declarations of love and forthcoming about his curiosity about her past, and it rankled him. He couldn’t win with her no matter what he did, so the only solution was not to play the game any longer.

And if truth be told, Fred was embarrassed by his own presumptuousness. He really thought he could be Lucy van der Hoeven’s white knight, the man who loved her so well that he erased the scars of her abysmal past. He, who had proven spectacularly incompetent at being a good fiancé to Bess, a woman was the epitome of serenity, grace and levelheadedness! But even if he’d been a paragon of men, some wounds were just too deep to heal. That was problematic enough for their relationship in itself, but then he’d gone and let his frustration get the better of him, lashing out and compounding Lucy’s pain by saying something so awful that it nauseated him to recall the cruel words that had come out of his own mouth. When the chips were down, he _was_ a conscienceless bastard who deserved every bit of the lonely life he couldn’t escape. Perhaps he ought to do the world a favor and head to the Court Avenue Bridge for a one-way trip into the Des Moines River –

Fred gritted his teeth. Determined not to wallow in his own self-pity, he refocused his mind on the legwork he needed to complete for the events he was slated to cover for the paper this week. Whenever he found his mind wandering to Lucy and their big blow up, he pinched the inside of his wrist to bring himself back on track. By the time his stomach started clamoring for sustenance several hours later and he could no longer ignore the hunger pangs, the skin of both of his wrists was black and blue. But it was a small price to pay – despite his discontent, he’d managed not only to complete all his legwork, he’d also churned out a decent amount of preliminary copy.

As it was Sunday, everything was closed – even Bill’s – so there was nowhere for Fred to go but home, although he knew his pantry’s pickings were going to be laughably slim, even for a bachelor’s. It had been Lucy’s turn to procure their meals for today; they alternated each week, at her insistence. Quelling a fresh burst of annoyance – _everything_ had to be tit for tat with the actress; she couldn’t simply accept even the smallest gesture of generosity from him! – the reporter turned his attention to scouring his kitchen for something to eat. Unsurprisingly, the only edible contents he could find were a tin of crackers which, though unopened, were most likely stale by now. But he polished them off quickly, and for good measure he drank several long draughts of water from his kitchen faucet – he’d been so absent from his apartment over the past several months that he didn’t even have any booze on hand to keep him company. But he wasn’t about to complain about his lot – though the crackers and water were the only nourishment he’d had today, he wasn’t in any danger of starving to death. Tomorrow, he’d make up for his privation by having a large breakfast at Bill’s and buying the biggest bottle of bourbon he could afford.

Besides, if Fred was a little too hungry for comfort, he’d at least have something else to think about other than _her_. But as he could do nothing to remedy his sobriety, it was still going to be a long and lonely night. It certainly didn’t help how disorienting it was to be back in a flat, even though he’d called this place home for nearly a decade. He felt almost as if he was in a stranger’s residence; normally, he preferred a neatly-arranged environment (which was easy enough for him to maintain as he didn’t have much in the way of worldly possessions), and this apartment was a disorganized and dusty mess. For the past few months, he’d completely neglected his housekeeping in favor of gallivanting around with Lucy, and now he was reaping the rewards of his indolence. While living out of the actress’s hotel room, the only chore he’d kept up with was the laundry. But even that was in a sorry state, as he’d hastily mashed all of his clean and dirty clothes together when packing his suitcase earlier.

Seeing the sheer disarray of his abode, Fred was almost relieved that Lucy had refused to come back here with him – his argument that they’d be in nicer surroundings than her squalid hotel would have fallen completely flat. While he refused to entertain the idea that the actress might yet take him up on his invitation – he’d hurt her far too deeply to risk getting his hopes up – it wasn’t decent for _him_ to live this way. Squaring his shoulders and rolling up his sleeves, the reporter gave his flat the good cleaning it so desperately needed. As he moved from room to room, setting things to rights, his mind lay smooth and quiet – this kind physical activity was just the kind of distraction he needed to forget about things.

He only hit one snag in the course of his cleaning. As he dealt with the towering pile of mail on his desk, he discovered a small but significant package from Fanny. The box was accompanied by a thick letter, which was no doubt filled to the brim with his dear sister’s sickeningly-sweet and now thoroughly inappropriate congratulations. Really, she could be just as tactless as his mother, at times! As Fred clenched the package in his fist, an intense fury suddenly overwhelmed him, and he hurled the letter and box as hard as he could across the room. Fortunately, everything bounced harmlessly off the wall and landed on the floor with a soft thump… though as inconsequential as his outburst of pique was, it still earned him a scolding knock on the wall from the tenant next door.

Immediately, Fred felt abashed by his irrational anger at the only woman who had ever been in his corner – as much as he prided himself on maintaining his equanimity in the face of discomfort, he was behaving no better than a boy throwing a tantrum! Shouting a terse apology to his neighbor, he retrieved the package… and promptly stuffed it in the deepest recesses of his bottom desk drawer. Although he did not now and would never again have a need for his grandmother’s heirloom ring, he refused to send it back into Fanny’s keeping. While his mother might rant and rail once she found out, it was _his_ inheritance, and he’d do what he damn well pleased with it. Deciding that the rest of the mail could wait until another time, the reporter resumed dusting and scrubbing and polishing every surface he could reach, until exhaustion made him collapse onto his parlor sofa sometime around three in the morning.

When Fred finally came to the next morning, he was famished and his back ached. But his anger had been replaced by despondency, which he supposed was progress. That his apartment was sparkling from top to bottom should have cheered him at least a little bit, but when he caught sight of his haggard reflection in the washroom mirror, the brightness of his surroundings only served to reignite his irritation. But a shower and a shave went a long way in improving his outlook, as did a good meal at Bill’s. Wisely, the reporter had jam-packed his afternoon and evening with events to attend, which also helped immensely. When he finally returned home for the night, he brought with him a heap of fresh groceries for the pantry and not one but two bottles of bourbon. Though the food went largely untouched – he hadn’t fully recovered from the indigestion he’d sustained from gorging too much at breakfast – one of the bottles of booze was polished off in short order, and Fred passed a well-deserved, blissfully insensate night.

But he paid dearly for this overindulgence the next morning. Once again, Fred had collapsed on his sofa, and not only did he wake up with a sore back and rumbling stomach, his head hurt something fierce. Still, he managed to drag himself to his feet and brew a pot of coffee, as he couldn’t afford to lie idle – he had work to do. Fortunately, both the coffee and an aspirin worked wonders, and the reporter made it into the office at his usual time for a Tuesday morning.

However, his cautiously burgeoning optimism immediately soured when he took a seat at his desk and reviewed the assignment he needed to complete – a society write-up on a garden party held at Mrs. Parkstone’s palatial estate last Friday. This time, there was no pretense at charity; the event was strictly to show off the colossal and expensive marble statues of various figures from Greek mythology that she’d recently had installed on the grounds. Fred and Lucy had both attended this event, marveling at the ostentatious sculptures in public while sharing a mutual grimace when no one else was paying attention. At one point, the reporter and actress had been able to sneak away together for a whole twenty minutes, as the vast hedge maze contained enough hidden nooks and crannies for a dozen couples who yearned for a little more privacy. Lucy had looked especially delectable in the deep crimson tea gown trimmed with white lace that she’d purchased especially for the affair. Although Fred had initially tried to convince her that she didn’t need to go to all that expense, she’d stubbornly insisted that it wouldn’t do him any favors if she made herself an object of curiosity by wearing the same drab walking suit to every high-society party they went to. As Lucy pulled him into an alcove, breathless and laughing, Fred appreciated her tenacity – he’d thoroughly enjoyed pressing soft but heated kisses against the broad expanse of bare skin that her low-necked gown afforded. This little slice of heaven in the midst of absurdity was one of his favorite memories of her… at least, it had been until their fight. Now, it was one of the embraces that hurt most to recall.

In truth, Fred should have finished this article by the end of the day on Sunday, for publication in Monday’s edition, but for all his diligence, he just couldn’t bring himself to complete the assignment. However, it was now Tuesday morning, and if the article wasn’t out in tomorrow’s paper, Mrs. Parkstone was not going to be happy. So regardless of his feelings, he had to grit his teeth and get it over with.

But as Fred clenched his jaw and loaded his typewriter with a sheet of paper, he was suddenly overtaken by another upswell of fury – the same unreasonable surge of emotion that had caused him to hurl his grandmother’s ring across the room a few days before. However, he wasn’t about to cause such a commotion in the busy newsroom and draw unwanted attention to himself. Instead, he channeled his anger the only way he could: writing a hardnosed screed against obscenely wealthy people who had more dollars than good taste or decency:

_While children in this city go to bed starving, the wealthy Parkstone matriarch spends her fortune on hulking marble monstrosities, mere playthings to amuse herself when the ennui of being privileged with an overabundance of prosperity becomes too difficult to bear. However, this reporter might have been able to overlook such a gauche display of riches if the results had been aesthetically pleasing. But alas, the statues were ugly as sin._

_So I ask my fellow Iowans, whose parents and grandparents came to this country in search of a better life: Is America the land of golden opportunity of which your family dreamed? No, it is a place where the people have merely exchanged one set of kings and princes for another – the Rockefellers, the Morgans, the Vanderbilts, just to name a few. While the self-starting forefathers of these grand lineages may have earned their fortunes through hard work and grit alone, their heirs are subsequently pampered and spoiled as any European monarch, and so these families have become plutocratic dynasties whose rulers are busy playing their fiddles while Rome burns._

Once Fred had had gotten that out of his system, he loaded a fresh piece of paper into his typewriter and effortlessly churned out the trite, fawning article that was expected of him, making sure to meticulously note all the details Mrs. Parkstone would have wanted him to mention about each statue.

That done, the reporter stood up from his desk and brought the article to Mr. Bowles for his final review. His boss scanned it quickly, and then looked up at Fred with a stunned expression.

“Have you gone barking mad?”

Fred quirked his brow. “I don’t think so… why?”

Mr. Bowles cleared his throat and read the opening paragraph:

_The rich are not like the rest of us. For those readers seeking proof of their frivolity and avariciousness, this article will deliver the goods. And for those readers who are salivating in anticipation over the latest juicy tidbits regarding how luxuriously the other half lives, there’s more than enough slop ahead to satisfy your gluttonous appetites. Either way, nobody wins, but at least you will all be entertained as the world goes to hell._

Fred’s heart dropped into his stomach. He’d handed in the wrong article! This wasn’t the first time he’d written a nasty, poison-pen article to work the frustration out of his system, but he’d never been so stupid as to pass one in – at least, until now.

As his eyes widened in dismay, his boss’s narrowed in disapproval. “So tell me, Fred – what’s your end game here? Are you trying to start something along the lines of the French Revolution?”

The reporter’s mouth went dry, and he struggled to speak. “I didn’t mean to hand _that_ one in,” he finally managed to stammer. “It was a mistake. The actual article is still on my desk… ” He cast a pained glance back at the pile of papers next to his typewriter, which now seemed miles and miles away.

Mr. Bowles regarded him with a measured look. “Close my door.”

At this proclamation, the buzz in the bull pen immediately ceased, and Fred’s already-churning stomach did a full-on somersault. It was never good news when a reporter was ordered to do that, and everyone in the office knew it. As Fred walked over to the office door, his gaze firmly riveted to the ground, he could nevertheless feel the avid, scandalized looks of every single one of his colleagues burning into him.

Although he knew he’d sealed himself in to his doom, Fred was relieved when the heavy wooden door stood between him and the rest of the newsroom. At least his humiliation wouldn’t be public!

When he finally turned around to face the music, Mr. Bowles gruffly commanded, “Take a seat.”

Not only did he do as he was told without protest, Fred decided to go one step further and offer his resignation straightaway, hopefully sparing himself a little upbraiding in the process. “There’s no excuse for what I wrote. I never should have written it in the first place.” His shoulders slumped. No Lucy, and now no career. Through his own folly, he had lost everything. His next stop after this would be the Court Avenue Bridge. “I’ll turn in my satchel and key to the building immediately.”

Mr. Bowles held up his hand. “There will be no talk of turning in satchels and keys,” he admonished. “At least, not yet. You’re one of my best men, Fred. What on earth drove you to write such a venomous smear job? Does Mrs. Parkstone really deserve such treatment?”

Fred sighed – but chose his words carefully. Mr. Bowles was the last person he could ever discuss personal matters with. “No, she doesn’t. She’s a gracious lady who’s treated me with nothing but kindness. I suppose it was just one silly society event too many for me.”

Fortunately, his boss was content not to pry further. “I suspected as much,” he said with a grim nod. “You’ve been covering the society beat for how long, now?”

“Ever since the Easter Sunday tornadoes at the end of March, after my River City article brought such comfort and joy to the distressed public.”

“Well, it’s long past time to get you writing real news again,” Mr. Bowles decided. He raised an eyebrow at the reporter. “But why didn’t you say something, before?”

“I was doing just fine with what the subject matter I was covering,” Fred said honestly. Not wanting to outright lie – his boss could sniff out falsehood as quickly as a bloodhound catching the scent of carrion – and not wanting to admit the full extent to which he’d allowed his emotions to interfere with his job, he decided to make his pitch. After all, he had nothing left to lose at this point.

“The reason I didn’t request meatier assignments is because I’ve been working on something big in my spare time.” He straightened up in his seat. “Since the River City article was such a hit with our readers, it got me thinking – what else besides the Think System is out there? What are other musicians and actors and artists around the country doing that is new and exciting?” Enthusiasm began to color his voice. “A column on the arts would be just the thing to bring a little more culture and gaiety to Iowa. A monthly or even weekly series informing Iowans about the latest innovations in art, music, dance, theater, movies – everything from popular entertainment to the sublime! People say they want bread alone, but they also hunger for cotton candy and circuses every now and then – as the popularity of my post-River City stories has demonstrated.”

Mr. Bowles looked impressed, which for a man who prided himself on maintaining a dispassionate façade at all times was really saying something. “You’ve clearly given this a lot of thought.” He surveyed the reporter with appraising eyes. “But will this be enough for you? It’s a step up from the society beat, but it’s still not as substantial as what you were covering before.”

Fred nodded. “As a boy, I wanted to be a musician. But as it turned out, I’m a far better journalist than trumpet player. This column would be the ideal way for me to keep music in my life – there would be absolutely no danger of smear jobs here, I assure you!”

His boss gave a terse nod and fell silent, his expression inscrutable as he mulled the matter over. Fred was reminded of the first time he ever stood in this office several years ago, a young greenhorn nervously waiting to find out whether he had gotten himself a job or not. His career aspirations once again hanging in the balance, the reporter held his breath, and waited.

Finally, Mr. Bowles grinned – which for him, meant that the corners of his lips briefly twitched upward in a not-frown. “All right, we’ll give your column a try. When can you start?”

Fred beamed. “I’ll be ready to leave by September.”

XXX

Wanting to get a head start on his travel itinerary, Fred stayed at the office late into the evening. It was nearly nine thirty when he finally decided to call it a day, and though he normally would have headed over to Bill’s for a bite to eat, he was so exhausted that he decided to skip the meal and go straight home. However, he soon ended up regretting that decision – once he reached the floor of his apartment, his nose was assailed by the delectable aroma of veal and peppers on the air. Though it was an odd hour for someone to be cooking, few of the inhabitants of his building kept what God-fearing folk would have deemed a normal schedule, so it wasn’t too out of the ordinary. The reporter didn’t question the evidence of his senses for a moment; instead, he inhaled deeply and sighed wistfully. He hadn’t had a proper, home-cooked meal since… well, since that delicious Easter ham he’d enjoyed in River City all the way back in March.

As Fred slowly walked down the hallway, savoring the heady bouquet for as long as he could, he started to realize that as he approached his door, the aroma grew stronger – so strong that he wondered if his nose was playing tricks on him. It couldn’t have been coming from _his_ flat – he didn’t even have any veal or peppers in his pantry! Nevertheless, the reporter quickened his pace and was further astonished to find his door not just unlocked, but slightly ajar.

Although he absolutely refused to believe what his suddenly-pounding heart and churning stomach anticipated as he raced into the flat, his eyes confirmed this suspicion when they landed on Lucy van der Hoeven thoroughly engrossed in setting his small table – which she had covered with one of her many colorful damask scarves. Clearly not expecting his arrival yet, she jumped when she looked up and spotted him.

“Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed, sounding both relieved and annoyed. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Fred normally would have apologized sardonically for startling her – _she_ was the unannounced visitor, after all – but he was so stunned by her presence in his apartment that all he could do was stand there and stare at her. Not only did he _not_ expect her to take him up on his invitation, the actress who’d insisted that she didn’t have a single domestic bone in her body was cooking him dinner. And she was wearing an apron!

But he had to say something. And as usual when he was flummoxed into speechlessness, what came out was thoroughly inane: “The door was already open.”

“Was it?” Lucy sheepishly put her hand to the back of her neck. “I thought I’d closed it. I didn’t want to lock it, just in case… ” She trailed off, seemingly at a loss to explain her reasoning.

“You have to give it a good, solid push,” he nattered in yet another grasp for something, _anything_ to say to defuse the awkward atmosphere between them. “Otherwise it won’t shut all the way – the door never did sit in the frame just right.”

“Oh,” she said. She paused, but before that looming, uncomfortable silence could descend again, she brightly added, “Well, dinner should be ready in about five minutes!”

After relaying this information to him, she bustled back over to the stove. Still feeling like a man who’d somehow walked into a strange and extraordinary dream, Fred came up behind her. Though he refrained from putting his arms around her waist, awe softened his wry tone as he remarked, “Who is this goddess of domesticity – and what has she done with Lucy van der Hoeven?”

Lucy giggled, sounding both pleased and embarrassed. It was an endearing sound, so different from her acerbic laugh, that Fred couldn’t help smiling, even as he was determined to remain aloof until he could fully regain his bearings and pinpoint just what her angle was. “Well, it occurred to me that you must have gone hungry on Sunday, as it was my turn to provide the food, so I owe you a good meal.” She shrugged, and continued to prattle rather nervously, “I’m not much of a cook, but I do know how to make veal and peppers. It was my father’s favorite meal. My mother made it all the time for him, starting all the way back when they were courting. He always joked it was partly the promise of her cooking that won him over to a rancher’s life. Unfortunately, I proved hopeless in the kitchen, but by some fluke, I learned how to make veal and peppers exactly the way my father liked it – he swore he couldn’t tell the difference whether the dish was made by me or my mother.” The nostalgic glow in her tone turned sad, as if she was recalling something particularly painful. “But then again, he could very well have been telling a fib, to brighten my spirits.” She paused, as if gathering herself together, and turned to face the reporter with a small smile. “But hopefully, it will be as good as he always told me it was!”

“Well, it smells delicious,” Fred assured her. He couldn’t help encouraging her, especially when she so sweetly smoothed an errant curl behind her ear as she gazed hesitantly at him. But he wasn’t about to let his emotions get the better of him – not just yet. “How did you get in here, though? I gave you my address, but not a key.”

Lucy waved her hand. “Oh, that was easy enough – when you didn’t answer your door earlier, I tracked down the landlord and told him I was your sister Fanny who’d come all the way from Charleston.” She clasped her hands in a gesture of pleading that was poignant but not overly melodramatic, and Fred was struck again by what a skillful actress she was. “Your favorite sister who was desperate to find you, because I had to tell you something terribly important about our mother.” She dropped the act, looking both guilty and pleased by her own cleverness. “He let me in right away.”

Fred hid a smile as he reflected that given his landlord was a harmless but rather doddering old man, he would probably have been fooled even by a less-talented thespian. But it was no laughing matter – in his own way, the reporter had proven to be just as big of a fool over Lucy van der Hoeven.

“Why did you come here?” he asked in a quiet, dispassionate voice.

Her expression apprehensive but determined, Lucy bit her lip and stepped even closer to him. Taking Fred’s hand in hers, she laid it against her lower stomach. “I came to tell you about _this_.”

Instinctively, Fred’s fingers curled to stroke her scar, even as he stammered, “You don’t owe me anything, Lucy. Not after what I said to you – ”

“Oh hush,” she said dismissively. “I know you didn’t mean it.” Putting her arms around him, she laid her head down on his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have goaded you into a fight.”

Fred’s free hand found her waist, and he pulled her closer to plant a kiss on her jasmine-scented curls. “I still shouldn’t have said it, just the same.”

They lapsed into silence, holding each other tenderly but carefully, still not entirely sure of one another.

“I _want_ to tell you that story, Fred,” Lucy finally said, her voice as earnest as he had ever heard it.

“I want to hear it,” he replied, just as sincerely.

The actress’s stomach rumbled beneath his caresses. As if in sympathy, the reporter’s also growled.

Fred’s hand stilled, and he and Lucy shared a smile.

“How about a little dinner, first?” she suggested, turning back to the stove.

His smile broadened into a grin, and his arms fell away from her waist. “I’ll go wash up.”

XXX

Fred had barely gotten the last bite of his dinner in his mouth when Lucy abruptly launched into her story.

“I was married once.”

He almost dropped his fork. It wasn’t so much what she said that threw him for a loop, it was her stark directness in getting right to the point.

“ _Was_ ,” she pointedly emphasized as he goggled at her. “Back in Pilger. Very briefly.”

The actress sat stiffly, uncomfortably. When she had told him about meeting the love of her life, she took her time setting the scene and building to the conclusion; even in the midst of great personal anguish, she remained the consummate performer. She couldn’t help herself; it was in her blood. But now, she seemed at a loss as to how to begin. Although the reporter was relieved that his most dreadful suspicions as to how she had become pregnant weren’t the case, it was clear the events surrounding her scar were more painful and difficult to recount than even Simon Sennett’s seduction and betrayal.

Fred reached over and took Lucy’s trembling hand in his. “You told me you always wanted to be an actress, for as long as you could remember,” he gently prompted. “Start with that.”

She relaxed a little, and her fingers curled around his. “Yes, I suppose I inherited my wanderlust for the performing arts from my father – though he happily gave up his life as a circus acrobat to settle down with my mother into a quiet, respectable existence as a rancher. Of course, my mother hoped I’d settle just as nicely someday, and to make sure that I ended up choosing the life she thought best, she vetoed any extracurricular activities she felt were too unladylike. While she tolerated my weekly recitations of the gossip column (and even laughed behind her hand at times), I wasn’t allowed to so much as recite a piece in my school’s annual Christmas pageant. But I refused to let the lack of opportunity stop me; it only made me even more determined to leave Pilger someday. As I got older, I learned to keep my head down and play at being the modest country girl my mother wished I would be, but in secret I read every scrap of information I could find about the wider world, while saving up my money for a one-way train ticket out of town as soon as I graduated from high school.”

Lucy sighed, and the zeal ebbed from her expression. “But then my father died suddenly, just two weeks before I could seize my opportunity to be free. From then on, my life was thrown into complete disarray. My mother was beside herself with grief, not just over the loss of the man she loved, but over the very real possibility that she was going to have to sell the land that had been in her family for generations, all the way back when they first came to Nebraska in the pioneer days. But what else could we do? There was no son to take over the family business and no marriage prospects on the horizon for me. At least, not at the moment. While I wasn’t so drop-dead gorgeous as to be considered the town beauty, I was pretty and vivacious enough to have had a few admirers in high school – though of course I was far too focused on my dreams of becoming an actress to pay the sons of farmers any mind.”

Her shoulders slumped. “But that changed after Dad died. One of my high-school admirers, William Josiah Wright, started calling on me. This caused quite the stir among my peers, as he was considered the top catch of our class; the boy that all the other girls swooned over and set their caps for.” She wrinkled her nose. “Or so I heard, anyway. While it was true that William Josiah Wright was tall, handsome, gregarious and athletic, I always thought him unremarkable. Because despite those sterling qualities, he was just like everyone else in that damn town: he thought the world began and ended in Pilger. Normally, I wouldn’t have hesitated to send him packing. But I was lonely and frightened and in desperate need of comfort, which he readily provided. He understood perfectly what I was going through, because he’d lost his beloved mother when he was only ten years old. So I accepted his attentions, and soon discovered that he was also kindhearted and intelligent, if a bit too small-minded for my tastes. But on the whole, I liked him, and he became a dear friend.” She swallowed guiltily. “Dear enough that when he eventually proposed to me, I said yes.”

Lucy gritted her teeth and covered her face with her free hand. “I would never have done something so monumentally stupid if I hadn’t been so devastated over the loss of my father!”

Fred scooted his chair closer and wordlessly put his arm around the actress as she continued, “It wasn’t that I was dead set against marriage on principle. I grew up seeing how happy my parents were together, and there was a small part of me that longed to find a man who loved me just as much as my father had loved my mother. However, my dreams of travel and adventure had always been far more important to me than romance. But now that my father was gone, it seemed too egregiously selfish to abandon my mother to an uncertain future while I chased a pie-in-the-sky dream that probably wouldn’t even come true. William Josiah Wright was a hardworking and decent man, and while I wasn’t passionately in love with him, I liked and esteemed him, and I thought that given time, I might grow to want him as desperately as he wanted me. So I dismissed my dreams as mere childish fancies and got married at age nineteen to the boy next door.”

Lucy sighed again. “As you can imagine, my mother was thrilled about this turn of events. Now the ranch would stay in the family, and I could pass it down to my children.” She scowled. “For it just so happened that my dear husband was determined that there _would_ be children, and lots of them. The moment he got me alone on our wedding night, he confessed that his greatest dream in life was to have a large family… and he wasted no time in trying for one.” A wry note entered her voice. “While William Josiah Wright wasn’t the brutish sort of man who claimed his marital rights from his wife whenever he wanted, regardless of her feelings or wishes, he was a thoroughly unimaginative lover. Our first time together, he was finished so quickly that I barely had time to reflect on the enormity of what had just occurred, except to note with astonishment that lovemaking wasn’t nearly the big deal that so many people giggled and whispered about! At first, I chalked up my rather lackluster initiation into womanhood to inexperience; his as well as mine. While I wasn’t the first girl he’d ever kissed, I was the first one he’d ever made love to, something else he confessed to me that night.

“So I refused to be disappointed prematurely. But as our honeymoon progressed, the only thing that changed for the better was that my body became accustomed to William Josiah Wright’s nightly attentions, so at least I was no longer sore afterward. At the time, I was too innocent to realize that there were a vast number of ways a man and woman could please each other in the bedroom, and my husband did his business so quickly that I never achieved a single climax when I was with him. I didn’t even know a woman _could_ climax until I met Simon. But despite my maidenly ignorance, I couldn’t help feeling deep down that something wasn’t quite right. Because I had _seen_ passionate love, or at least the periphery of it – while my mother was prim and proper to a fault, she couldn’t hide the warm way she looked at my father, or stifle the fondness in her voice when she talked to or even just about him. They were clearly besotted with each other, so much so that they weren’t able to wait until they were married to have each other. If lovemaking was really so wonderful, then why was it proving so unremarkable in my case?

“One of the things that did strike me as especially unusual was just how taciturn my husband continued to be after we were married. Apparently, he _wasn’t_ holding himself back during our courtship; though he now had complete freedom to touch me wherever and whenever he wanted, he did not attempt to bestow any kisses or other blandishments on me unless we were making love. Although I was a bit bewildered by this lack of affection, I wasn’t quite sure I wanted my husband to be more amorous in temperament, especially if it meant having to endure even more frequent occasions of monotonous lovemaking – once a night was quite enough for me! It didn’t help that I continued to be unsure as to whether or not I was truly in love with him – I was no longer certain I knew what real love even was.”

Fred frowned. “He didn’t realize something was missing between the two of you?”

“Oh, it _never_ would have occurred to him that a woman could or should be pleased into ecstasy,” Lucy replied with her acerbic laugh. “And _he_ climaxed every single time, so as far as he was concerned, our lovemaking was just fine and dandy!” The amusement faded from her tone. “And while it never would have occurred to me to moan in false ecstasy in those days, I _was_ a dutiful wife who hid my dissatisfaction behind a benign smile whenever my husband climbed on top of me.”

She shrugged. “Still, I felt I owed it to both myself and my mother to make the best of my life. And marriage wasn’t entirely dreadful, at least not at first. During the day, my husband and I got along just fine, enjoying each other’s company just as much as we had while courting. He was scrupulously genteel in conversation, chivalrously ceding the point to me even when we didn’t see eye to eye on a subject. But then again, we hadn’t disagreed on anything but philosophical matters at that point, so he could afford to be generous.” Lucy’s gaze hardened. “After all, William Josiah Wright had gotten everything he wanted out of life, and he still had so much to look forward to. Because despite the lack of excitement in our lovemaking, there certainly wasn’t a lack of frequency, so I found myself pregnant barely three months into our marriage.”

The actress clutched at her stomach. “I was so sick in the beginning, even more than was normal for a woman to be. At least, that’s what the doctor said. All I knew was that my nausea was unbearable – for weeks, I could hardly keep any food or even just plain water down. And for the first four months of my pregnancy, I couldn’t do hardly anything but lie in our darkened bedroom with a cool cloth over my eyes as my mother brewed special broth concoctions to keep me alive; home remedies that had been passed down from grandmother to mother to daughter, recipes that she was trying to teach me but I couldn’t make heads or tails of. Though I was now officially the mistress of the ranch, she still had to do nearly all the cooking for the family, which my husband kindly never teased me about. Nor did he complain about my complete lack of energy. On the contrary, he was very tender and solicitous of my well-being, even going so far as to spoon-feed me the broth himself. No woman could have wanted a sweeter, more attentive husband than William Josiah Wright,” Lucy summed up – though her acrimonious expression indicated otherwise.

“When I finally improved enough to be allowed to get up and about around five or six months, I was so big and ungainly. I could no longer walk, only waddle. My ankles swelled up like balloons, as did my fingers – I could no longer wear my wedding ring, which to me seemed an ominous presentiment of the future, though of course I kept such gloomy thoughts to myself. As the baby continued to grow, wiggling ceaselessly and jostling my poor insides, I wasn’t just dangerously off-kilter, I was in constant discomfort, regardless of whether I was standing, sitting or lying down. I had always been lithe and acrobatic, but now I was a complete prisoner of my own body. I utterly _loathed_ pregnancy.” She paled, her hand tightening around Fred’s. “And as my stomach expanded more and more, it frightened me to think of labor, when this huge creature would force its way out of me – I didn’t see how it could happen without a great deal of pain and suffering. And once it did finally happen, I never wanted to go through this ordeal ever again!”

Lucy’s face crumpled. “When I was eight months along and once again confined to bed rest, all I could think of was what a huge mistake I had made in marrying William Josiah Wright, who wanted as many children as Providence saw fit to bless him with. Because deep down, I knew this baby was going to kill me. Or if not this baby, the next one. Or the one after that. Still, I tried not to give my fears any credence, hoping it was merely pregnancy hysteria influencing my mood. While my doctor, husband and mother kept a close eye on me, none of them seemed overly concerned that I was going to be anything but fine – though I’m sure if they’d been anticipating any complications, they would have been very careful not to let on. After all, one must never upset a pregnant woman,” she mused sardonically.

The actress shuddered. “But perhaps they were right not to worry me. Because labor was every bit as awful as I’d been dreading: painful, humiliating, and seemingly never-ending. Although I had little concept of anything outside the excruciating contractions that wracked my body, I started to glean from my mother’s and the doctor’s increasingly grim expressions that things weren’t going the way they were supposed to. But they wouldn’t tell me _anything_ , not even when I demanded to know what was happening. So I started to panic, which made the pain even worse. I was so hysterical that the doctor finally had to give me something to calm me down, and whatever he gave me mercifully knocked me right out. I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but when I finally woke up again, it was all over. The baby was out and my stomach was bandaged – apparently, they’d had to cut it out of me. I couldn’t see the scar but I could _feel_ exactly where the knife had cut through me. But as much as it stung, the pain was nothing compared to the agony of labor. And when the doctor gravely informed me that not only did he have to remove the baby that way, there was no chance I’d ever be able to conceive another child, I had to stop myself from laughing in sheer relief. I would never have to go through this horror again, no matter how many times my husband made love to me!

“Then it suddenly occurred to me – where _was_ the baby? Was it a boy or a girl? At those questions, the doctor looked at my mother; apparently, he thought it better that she break the news to me. In a sad but no-nonsense tone, she told me the baby was a boy, and he had died almost as soon as he was born.” Lucy swallowed thickly. “I was stunned. Of all the outcomes I’d imagined, I somehow never fathomed losing the baby. When I asked if I could see my son – after everything I’d gone through to bring him into this world, I wanted to at least _hold_ him, if only once.” Her voice cracked. “But I wasn’t even allowed that much – he had already been laid to rest in the family plot of the town cemetery. Apparently, once the doctor put me to sleep, I was out of my senses for nearly a week. I’d lost a lot of blood; they were afraid I might never wake up.”

Fred tightened his arms around the actress. “Oh, Lucy,” he whispered around the lump in his own throat. “I’m so sorry… ”

Lucy paused to wipe the tears from her eyes. “Well,” she said uncertainly, as if she wasn’t sure she should be admitting to such sentiments, “as distraught as I was to have lost my son, I wasn’t destroyed by his death. He never felt entirely _real_ to me. All throughout my pregnancy, I’d had the curious sense that I was merely in the midst of an unpleasant dream, and that feeling was only compounded by not having held my son or seen his body before he was buried. Both my husband and mother refused to speak about what had happened, which made it all the more surreal. Sometimes I wondered if I’d gone mad and that I _did_ dream it all up – and then the scar on my stomach would twinge, as if to remind me that there was indeed irrefutable proof he’d existed. I think the only reason I didn’t go mad was because I was so relieved that it was no longer going to be my lot in life to be endlessly saddled with one awful pregnancy after another, until it killed me!

“Though my taciturn husband didn’t say a word about my disastrous labor, he was devastated by the outcome. And that’s when our marriage started to go south. Now that I could no longer be the broodmare he’d always wanted, gone was the genteel and chivalrous man who humored his wife’s quirks and idiosyncrasies of opinion. While he wasn’t so cruel as to spring a catalog of my many flaws on me all at once, he started to find fault with most of what I did as soon as the doctor pronounced me recovered enough to resume my usual duties around the ranch: I should have been the one cooking all the meals instead of my aging mother, I was an inadequate housekeeper, it wasn’t decent for a God-fearing woman to be reading so many frivolous magazines and novels in her spare time. He even started criticizing the color and cut of my gowns and the way I styled my hair – if I had so much as a crimson sash around my waist or a collarless neckline or even just a curl out of place, I was being dreadfully immodest! But why should he care _how_ I was dressed? He hadn’t attempted to make love to me even once after I was healed. Apparently, now that I couldn’t give him any children, he didn’t see the point of doing anything else at bedtime other than giving me a perfunctory, chaste kiss goodnight. Not that I relished receiving his clumsy caresses, mind you – but I _was_ his wife, and he ought to have at least made a little effort!

“Living with him became so unbearable that I started to scrape together what little money I had remaining in order to leave for New York as I’d originally planned. But at first, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just couldn’t abandon my poor mother to the care of a man who blamed me for the death of his dreams. But I was too resentful to play the devoted wife any longer, so even though I never argued with my husband’s various criticisms, I didn’t bother trying to change my behavior to please his whims, either. Because I knew it didn’t matter what I said or did; now that I could no longer give William Josiah Wright the large family he so desperately longed for, he was falling out of love with me.”

Lucy’s scowl was very deep now, and her hands were balled into fists – even the one that Fred was presently holding. She fell silent for a moment, her jaw clenched and eyes flashing with anger as she recalled each and every little slight she’d had to endure.

Fred gently rubbed the small of her back. “Is there a reason you’ve been calling your husband – _former_ husband – only by his full name?” he asked, lest she get too mired in indignation to continue.

“Oh yes, I was just getting to that,” the actress said darkly. “About four months after my disastrous labor, when I was finally strong enough to take long strolls again, I went to visit my son’s grave for the first time. What I saw was the grave of _William Josiah Wright_. I might’ve been able to tolerate my husband’s constant jibes and ill moods, but this was the last straw! During happier times, we’d discussed various baby names at length, and while I had no qualms about any of the names he liked for a girl, I asked if we could name our first son Charles, after my father. At this request, he’d nodded with no trace of reluctance and assured me we’d do exactly that.” Lucy’s voice was as bitter as he’d ever heard it as she practically spat, “But when I was unconscious and it fell to him to handle that little detail, he apparently forgot! Furious, I stormed back to the house and confronted my husband about what he’d done. He had the grace to squirm sheepishly, but he stubbornly maintained that all the firstborn sons in his family were named William Josiah Wright – a fact he’d neglected to mention during our previous discussions! When I pointed that out, he told me it wasn’t wise to disagree with a pregnant woman. And he hadn’t forgotten my request, but since this was the only son – the only _child_ – we’d ever be able to have, he wanted to uphold tradition. To his credit, he said this with profound grief rather than the tone of sanctimonious petulance he’d taken to addressing me with of late, but I was so appalled by his selfishness that I read him the riot act. He got _everything_ – to hold our son for the few short minutes he lived, to baptize him, to name him, to bury him, leaving me with absolutely nothing. Couldn’t he at least have made Charles a middle name? He squirmed even more and said contritely that he would have done just that, if he’d realized it was so important to me. But that only made me even angrier, because I _had_ told him how important it was to me.” Her head drooped. “Apparently, my feelings and opinions were mere whims to be humored… and then ignored when it was inconvenient to his liking.”

The ire resurged in her gaze. “And _this_ was the man who professed to love me! Well, not that he’d professed it all that often – I can count how many times he told me he loved me on one hand.” Lucy held up two fingers and ticked them off: “The first time was when he proposed, and the second time was when I told him I was carrying his child.” Her eyes welled up and the corners of her lips trembled, though she managed to maintain her composure as she continued, “But my little boy will _always_ be Charlie to me, no matter what any birth certificate or headstone might read.”

Fred held the actress even tighter.

“Even though I should have been well used to it by now, my husband’s insensitivity astonished me,” she continued in a rush, clearly determined to get it all out into the open. “Although my father was the indisputable head of our household, he treated my mother as though her feelings and opinions mattered, and he’d always taken them into account when he made his decisions. He also demonstrated the same courtesy to me, which made growing up under my mother’s thumb far more bearable than it would have been otherwise. Unfortunately, as I later came to realize, first in my marriage and then in my affairs with Simon and other men, my father was a rare gentleman in a world full of cads and scoundrels.”

Lucy’s voice grew heavy with sorrow. “I’d hoped my husband would cherish me the way my father cherished my mother, but that was another dream soon dashed. After our argument about Charlie’s rightful name, William Josiah Wright didn’t so much as attempt to give me that obligatory goodnight kiss. He also started spending longer and longer stretches away from the ranch. As we were very isolated and I never went into town anymore, I couldn’t have paid attention to the gossip even if I’d been inclined to do so. And no one ever gossiped in my mother’s presence when she went to town, as she was well-known to disapprove of such triviality. So a full month passed before I finally discovered what was occupying so much of my dear husband’s time – or more precisely, _whom_.” Now her voice grew cold. “And I discovered this in the worst possible way.”

The reporter frowned in sympathy. “You caught them together?”

Lucy nodded grimly. “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking. My mother and I were taking a stroll on the grounds of the ranch and were approaching the main barn. The door was open and just inside it, my husband was standing with some shy, mousy little thing that I had gone to school with, but who’d hidden behind her hair and never said more than two words to anyone. They were deep in what looked to be a solemn, serious conversation. Though we could see them plain as day, we were too far away to hear what was being said. But as it turned out, we didn’t need to hear a single word – it soon became all too clear what they were talking about. As my mother and I came to an abrupt halt and watched them, trying to fathom exactly what it was we were witnessing, my husband suddenly got a look of sheer elation on his face, before dropping to his knees and planting a kiss on the woman’s stomach! At that, my mother was jolted into action. Storming over to them, she started upbraiding my husband and his mistress for their disloyalty and depravity. William Josiah Wright had the good grace not to interrupt; he stood there penitently and took her reprimands without protest. The mousy little thing burst into tears and tried to flee, but my husband reached out and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her to him. As he cradled her protectively in his arms, she buried her head in the crook of his neck and clung to him.

“I should have been furious at the sight of my husband canoodling so brazenly with another woman. And I might have been, if I hadn’t seen the name on my son’s grave. My husband had already demonstrated a complete lack of consideration for my feelings through his disregard of my request when he named our son, and this was merely one more proof of how little I mattered to him. So I no longer had it in me to be broken-hearted over William Josiah Wright’s betrayals. Instead, I felt mainly annoyance that he hadn’t been more careful in hiding his dalliance – he should at least have had the decency to be discreet! If my mother hadn’t been with us, I would have scolded him for this lapse. But there was no need for me to scream and shout, even if I’d been inclined to do so, because my mother was furious enough for the both of us, and did a thorough job expressing her displeasure. As I stood there, quietly watching the scene, I suddenly had an epiphany. This might just be the opportunity I needed to escape my wretched situation, and if it was, I mustn’t waste it.

“So when my mother finally rebuked herself out, I looked levelly at the mousy thing and asked her how far along she was. In a trembling voice, she told me four months. I did the math and realized that my husband must have started his affair pretty much as soon as the doctor informed us that we couldn’t have any more children. That clinched it for me. I _did_ feel wounded by this discovery, but my pride was hurt more than my heart. Now I knew that my suspicions had been correct all along: William Josiah Wright never truly loved me. He merely selected me to fill the role of his broodmare because I was the one girl in our class who never looked twice at him. As I later learned with Simon, a man most wants what he can’t easily get! But now that he’d had me, and now that I couldn’t give him what he really wanted, he was done with me. Even if I’d wanted him enough to put up a fight, I had no enticements to win him back – especially when there were still so many other girls just lined up behind me, waiting for their chance to move in! So he’d picked one.

“Terrified by my ominous silence, the mousy little thing on my husband’s arm started to let out pathetic, blubbering sobs, and a volley of tearful apologies spilled out. I held up a hand and told her she needn’t bother – I wasn’t going to make a fuss, she could have him. As she gaped at me, confused, I turned to William Josiah Wright and announced that I was leaving, and that he should divorce me for desertion. Naturally, this didn’t sit well with him. Even though he’d flagrantly disregarded his marriage vows, divorce was unthinkable in a place like Pilger. It simply wasn’t done by decent folk, no matter how bad things got. But when he opened his mouth to protest, I told him that if he didn’t do as I suggested, then _I_ was going to divorce him for infidelity as soon as the irrefutable proof of his unfaithfulness came along in five months. I knew there was no way he would deny being the child’s father, as he wanted children so desperately. Even if he’d had it in him to publicly denounce the mousy thing and claim her child wasn’t his, our marriage was over, and I refused to live in this sham of a union any longer. So he could either get this divorce done quickly enough to marry his mistress in time for their child to be born, saving them a little bit of scandal and a lot of unpleasantness, or he could wait for the situation to blow up in his face.

“The one admirable trait remaining in William Josiah Wright was that he was a highly practical man. Realizing that I was offering him the best end of a bad deal, he sullenly but sensibly agreed this was the wisest course of action for all concerned. That done, I turned and went to the house to pack my suitcase. My mother, who’d watched the entire proceedings with an aghast expression, followed after me, openly sobbing and pleading for me not to leave, telling me I couldn’t just abandon her and let the ranch go to William Josiah Wright and his ill-begotten bastard. I ignored her as I packed, even though she hovered so closely that I was practically tripping over her to get my things together. When she started lecturing me about how it was my duty to stay and help her fight for the family homestead, I finally had enough – I whirled around and asked her point-blank, what did she honestly expect me to do? Even if I stayed and divorced my husband for infidelity, the ranch was still his – ownership of the land was transferred to him as soon as we got married, so we’d most likely have to leave anyway. Even in the unlikely event that we did manage to oust him and his new family, we couldn’t run it just two women alone. When my mother suggested there was a chance my husband might renounce the woman and her child once he came to his senses, I told her point-blank that there was no love, sympathy, or even understanding left between us after my son died, whether or not he’d found someone else. And even if he did have a miraculous change of heart and begged me to take him back, did she really think I could just look the other way and pretend everything was fine while his child with another woman was somewhere out there in the world, a constant reminder of what I had failed to give him and could never give him again? Besides, even if he’d never strayed, we weren’t going to have any children to pass the ranch to, so the land would have left our family in the end, anyway.”

An upswell of pain overwhelmed the anger in Lucy’s eyes. “My mother retorted that at least she’d have been dead before that day came. I could only stare at her and wonder, had there ever been anyone besides my father who loved me for me alone, and not because they could use me to achieve their own selfish ends? My mother took my silence as an indication that I was starting to see things her way, and soothingly assured me that she was certain my husband still loved me. He only turned to that hussy out of comfort while he was grieving our great loss. At that, I gave her a measured look and asked her if Dad ever turned to other women for ‘comfort’ when it turned out she couldn’t have any more children after me. My mother was never very quick on the uptake – she looked hugely offended and told me certainly not, he could never have done such a terrible thing! To which I retorted, ‘Of course he couldn’t have, because he loved you – it was _you_ he wanted. What William Josiah Wright wanted most was a broodmare.’ My mother glowered at me and said sullenly that I always did have to insist on making dramatic presentations.

“While that was the line she always resorted to using when I’d won an argument, I was livid. I couldn’t stand that even though I was the wronged one, my mother would always believe I was in the wrong, even though she’d witnessed my husband’s betrayal just the same as I had. So I finally told her what I’d been wanting to say to her for the longest time: If Dad hadn’t died, I would have left Pilger as soon as I finished my senior year. Instead, I stayed home out of _duty_ – that same sense of duty she’d just accused me of lacking – and tried so hard to live the life that _she_ thought best for me, even though it went against my better judgment. Now that it had ended in complete disaster, I could no longer live my life to please her wishes, or anyone else’s. I offered her two choices: She could let me go so I could attempt to rebuild the shattered wreck of my life into something livable, or I was going to hang myself in the barn of her precious ranch. That subdued my mother at last; all the fight went out of her and her shoulders sagged in listless resignation. She asked me sadly where I was going to go. I told her I was planning to stay with her Aunt Sally for a few days to get my bearings, and then I would figure out what to do from there. Of course, I already knew exactly what I was going to do, and she probably did, too – go to New York City and pursue my dreams of becoming an actress – but I wasn’t about to confirm it, just in case she had a change of heart and decided to once again try to talk me out of leaving.

“So without another word, she let me go. Aunt Sally not only took me in and sympathized with me when I told her the whole sordid mess, she insisted on giving me what money she could to make my start. And that’s how I ended up in New York, barely twenty-one and struggling to make ends meet, until I met Simon Sennett. And you already know all about what happened after that.”

Fred caught Lucy in a bear hug as she sagged in his arms. But unlike on the night of July Fourth, she only allowed him to hold her for a few moments before abruptly excusing herself to clear the table and wash the dishes. Normally, Fred would have given her space – or sat there in a dither as to what he should do next – but now, he had the distinct hunch that he’d better overcrowd her. Standing up, he walked over to her as she vigorously scrubbed a plate, and put his arms around her waist.

“Lucy, you’re indomitable,” he said with quiet admiration.

The actress chortled. “That’s a new one,” she said wryly. “No one’s ever called me indomitable before! I’ve been an undutiful daughter, a second-rate wife, and a demanding prima donna.”

Her voice remained level, but the dishes clinked even more furiously together as she named each epithet. Fred tightened his arms around her, his voice still quiet as he replied, “You’re a determined, independent-minded woman who courageously overcame a great deal of adversity to achieve her lifelong dream of becoming a successful actress.” He dropped a light kiss on the nape of her neck. “And you are one hell of a talented thespian, Lucy van der Hoeven.”

By the time he finished speaking, her hands had stilled completely, and she stood stiffly in his arms. The reporter couldn’t see her face, but he had the hunch the actress was biting her lip, struggling to hold back her sobs. But even as his heart constricted, it spurred him onward; his mouth found the side of her neck for another gentle kiss. “Not many women would have had the strength, courage or smarts to escape from such wretched circumstances and completely remake her life.”

Fred thought she’d burst into tears, but she remained frozen where she stood and whispered, “I’m a bitter ruin whose charms eventually wore thin to every man who’s ever wanted me.”

He kissed her neck again, harder this time. “I love you, Lucy.”

At that, Lucy whirled around to face him, and he was a bit surprised to see that there were already tears streaming down her cheeks. “I _know_ you do,” she said, pained. “I’ve heard you say that to me nearly every night for the past month, ever since I told you about Simon. But” – she bit her lip and shifted uncomfortably in his embrace – “is it really _me_ you love? Or do I appeal to your sense of justice?”

“What?” Fred stammered, flabbergasted.

The actress’s cheeks flushed even more crimson than they already were. “Well… you know as well as I do that not a single man in my past loved me for myself alone – they either saw me as an unattainable prize to shoot for, a challenge to seduce, or a fleeting notch on their bedpost. But you – you’re a true gentleman, a man who can’t stomach injustice of any kind.” Her tears fell faster and she almost broke down completely, pausing to grip the counter and gulp back her sobs before continuing, “I would be the perfect damsel in distress for you – a woman you could love dearly in recompense for everything she’s suffered… ”

The reporter would have been hugely offended by her assessment of his feelings for her, if not for the fact that Lucy looked more miserable and mortified than he’d ever seen her, as if she wished she’d never said all this in the first place but couldn’t help herself because it had been eating at her for some time. And, he ruefully realized, it probably had been.

So it was time to set the record straight, as fully and completely as he could. Fred tenderly took her trembling hands in his and let the words just spill out. “Lucy, I don’t just love you – I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you, before I even knew you. And as I’ve gotten to know you, nothing you’ve said or done has made me fall out of love. If anything, it’s only deepened my feelings for you. You’re the woman I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet, the love of my life. It wasn’t Marian, it wasn’t even Bess. It’s _you_ – ”

While the reporter was nowhere near finished with what he had to say, he couldn’t get another word out, as Lucy had pulled him to her and crushed her mouth against his. “I love you, too Fred,” she said in a rush of glee and guilt when they finally parted, gasping. “I’ve loved you ever since you first surprised me with breakfast in bed that first Sunday – ”

Now it was Lucy who was promptly quieted when Fred’s mouth covered hers. He ought to have let her continue talking, ought to have told her about his new job and brought out the ring. But he was too overwhelmed by a sudden upswell of emotion – he’d been waiting so long to hear her say this to him. All he could do was kiss her desperately, passionately, until she was as senseless in his arms as he was in hers. They were only dimly aware of their surroundings as he feverishly tugged her skirts upward and she fumbled to undo the fastenings of his trousers. It wasn’t until she’d wrapped her legs around his hips as he lifted her up onto the counter that the room came back into sharp focus – several dishes clattered as they were unceremoniously shoved aside by the disturbance, and a glass fell to the floor and shattered.

Their mouths parted immediately at the noise, and Lucy looked down at the shards with a sigh. “We should probably clean that up… ”

“ _Later_ ,” Fred insisted, unwilling to let the mood be ruined by such a trifling occurrence. Sweeping Lucy up into his arms, he stepped carefully around the broken glass. The moment he made it over the threshold, his mouth found hers again. Once again getting completely lost in each other’s embrace, they tumbled to the nearest convenient surface: the sofa. The reporter ought to have been a gentleman and taken the woman he loved into his bedroom, but it somehow seemed fitting for their reconciliation to happen on the cushions where he’d passed two long and lonely nights without her.

The actress’s skirts had been left behind in the kitchen, where she’d worked his erection free from both his trousers and drawers, so all it took was Lucy notching her thighs tightly around his hips once they’d managed to align their bodies together on the narrow couch, and then he was inside her. She was as wet for him as he was hard for her, and writhed eagerly against him as he urgently thrust into her. It had been nearly three days since they’d last made love, and after two solid months of making love to each other every day – often more than once – that brief gap seemed like an eternity. So if they didn’t slacken their pace in short order, he was going to finish in mere minutes. Once, this would have alarmed him. But now, as they moved frantically together, Fred didn’t hold back in body _or_ soul, murmuring his love over and over again and delighting in the way that his declarations increased the pleasure in her moans.

When he did finish, he held Lucy close, kissing her sweetly and softly until he recovered enough strength to pick her up and carry her to his bedroom. Now that the keenest edge was taken off of their desire, they were able to engage in the leisurely prelude they were too impatient to endure before. Turning on the lights, they slowly removed the remainder of each other’s rumpled clothes. As Fred kissed and caressed the actress’s naked curves, her gaze and hands avidly wandered over his bare body, as if she was trying to burn every inch of him into her memory. To keep Lucy excited in the interval it would take for him to recover sufficiently enough to make love to her again, he did everything he could think of to please her with his hands… and then mouth.

Lucy let out a breathy giggle as his tongue traced all the places between her inner thighs that he knew very intimately, even as she wreathed her fingers in his hair and arched encouragingly beneath his ministrations. “Oh Fred… that _can’t_ be pleasant for you… maybe you ought to let me wash up, first… or we could take a bath… ”

Fred shook his head; he was already growing hard for her again. As he slid up to cover her body with his, stopping just when the tip of him was pressed against her entrance, his eyes locked with hers. “I’m going to make you come again and again, until you tell me to stop.” Surging forward, he slid easily into her. He groaned, not only at the way her hips immediately rose to meet his, but how she buried her face in the crook of his neck and tightened her arms around him. He was home.

“Oh Fred,” she gasped, her voice something in between a moan and a sob as she fiercely clung to him, “you don’t know how many times I’ve wished I met _you_ in New York, instead of Simon Sennett. Or that I had grown up in Charleston instead of Pilger and been the girl to catch your eye – I would have joined you in Des Moines in a heartbeat. We both would have been spared so much sorrow and suffering, if only we hadn’t met each other so late in life… ”

Fred’s mouth descended over hers for a deep kiss. “Better late than never,” he said staunchly. “And now we _have_ found each other… ”

“Yes… ” Lucy moaned, her tone once again an inscrutable mix of joy and sorrow. But as he continued to make love to her both tenderly and passionately, soon there was only delight in her moans and then wails as he brought her to ecstasy again and again, just as he’d promised.

Much later, when both of them were utterly spent and lying contently in each other’s arms, Lucy told him what happened in Pilger after she left. “My dear Aunt Sally’s one failing was that she was a hopeless gossip. So I got the whole sordid story in her letters, even though I didn’t particularly care to know it. After divorcing me for desertion, my husband married his mistress and moved her right into the ranch. My mother steadfastly refused to leave at first, even though she knew she was in an untenable position.” The guilt ebbed from her tone, replaced with a quiet satisfaction. “But she endured, making life very uncomfortable for William Josiah Wright and his new bride. Naturally, there was a huge scandal as soon as his mistress-turned-wife’s pregnancy became public knowledge, and when the baby was born the talk increased as people did the math and were able to pinpoint the conception.” Lucy sighed. “It was a son, which they named William Josiah Wright.”

Fred winced. “Creativity clearly wasn’t the man’s strong point.”

Lucy giggled and nestled even closer to him. “He always was a bit of a blockhead,” she said contemptuously. “That’s probably what allowed him to maintain a tight-lipped and dignified silence despite the firestorm of talk surrounding him. It helped that the mousy little thing he married really was as timid as a mouse – though she’d been far too plain and retiring to catch his eye in high school, she turned out to be just the kind of meek and obedient broodmare he’d always wanted. So she followed his lead, refusing to discuss the matter with anyone. They both just continued to live their lives as if nothing about their situation was indecent or out of the ordinary. And since they were such unrewarding targets, the gossip mill soon died down to its usual dull roar. So in the end, my erstwhile husband went on to have the large brood he’d always wanted, in relative peace and comfort.”

Her tone turned both sad and angry. “But my mother, poor thing, lost _her_ dream in the end. She was always a scrupulously proper woman, and it was very hard on her to be such an object of curiosity and scorn. She didn’t deserve the merciless scrutiny she received, because she was a decent lady at heart, despite her stubborn blindness when it came to her own daughter. Aunt Sally pleaded with her to come stay for good, but she refused, even though it was killing her soul little by little to remain on her beloved ranch. However, when William Josiah Wright’s wife became pregnant again very quickly after delivering her first, she could no longer bear to witness firsthand her family’s ancestral homestead being filled with the progeny of an adulteress. So she packed up her things and went to live with Aunt Sally at last. She lost everything – husband, daughter, the ranch that had been in her family for generations.”

The actress paused and wiped away a few tears that had trickled down her cheek. “Mother allowed Aunt Sally to read my letters to her, but she never wrote back – she refused to even speak my name. Aunt Sally eventually passed away, or so I assumed, because she stopped answering my letters five years ago – right around the same time Simon died, as a matter of fact. But even though in all likelihood, I was now completely alone in the world, I continued to write from time to time… because my mother might still be alive, and I can’t stand the thought of her living in Aunt Sally’s tiny house as a lonely, bitter old recluse with no one to talk to.”

Fred kissed her warmly. “No matter what anyone might have called you, you have a good heart, Lucy.”

She smiled wanly. “I have a restless heart – even if my husband hadn’t strayed after the death of our son, I would have found some other reason to leave him eventually. I couldn’t be happy as long as I remained in Pilger, and I was much too selfish to live an empty life simply to retain the veneer of respectability. Better to be scandalous, but content with my lot – even if I am likely to be damned for it!”

“That outlook on life is one of the many things I love about you,” he said with a grin.

Lucy’s eyes filled with tears again. “I suppose in an awful way, it might actually have been better for me that things happened the way they did. Not only did I eventually achieve my lifelong dream of becoming an actress, I also never had to dread the possibility of conceiving another child. So I could go to bed with whoever I liked whenever I liked without worrying about the consequences women always have to consider whenever they surrender to a man’s charms. I wasn’t just free, I had achieved freedom beyond my wildest dreams! Not that I wanted to go to bed with anybody at first, mind you, because I wasn’t much interested in lovemaking. I never knew it could be like _this_ … ”

After his long day and even longer evening, Fred was exhausted. But Lucy was now on top of him, kissing him hungrily, her warm thighs wrapped around his hips and soft breasts pressing into his chest. He stirred at the flood of sensation, suddenly needing her as desperately as she needed him. Without preamble, his hands cupped her backside and he guided her to take him in. Once they were united, her mouth crashed down on his and they frantically moved together. This time, though, it was Lucy who set the pace, making love to him with all her soul.

Much, much later, when neither of them could move, the actress murmured, “You asked me once… my maiden name was Dixon. I am Lucy Dixon.”

“Lucy Dixon,” he repeated softly, and smiled. “I like it. It’s a much catchier stage name than the overblown ‘van der Hoeven.’”

“Do you really think so?” she asked, even as she yawned and closed her eyes.

Fred paused. He was beyond exhausted now, but her question provided the perfect lead-in to what he’d always wanted to say to her, ever since their first night together.

“I do think so,” he said in a low, serious voice. “But I think Lucy Gallup has an even lovelier ring to it… ”

Lucy didn’t stir, nor did the cadence of her breathing change. The early bird had missed his worm – he’d spoken just a hair too late. Though it wasn’t too late, not really. He could have shaken her awake and continued his proposal.

But at long last, exhaustion finally won out. _What’s the rush?_ the reporter asked himself. _There’s always tomorrow morning._ He’d wake up early, cook Lucy breakfast, bring out the ring and propose. He’d also make sure to tell her how he’d arranged his job so she wouldn’t have to give up her career to be his wife. All his ducks were lined up in a row waiting to go, and the woman he loved was solidly back in his arms. What he needed most right now – what they _both_ needed – was a good night’s rest!

So Fred closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.


	6. I Promise You a Happy Ending

_I promise you a happy ending_  
 _Like the ones that you see on the screen_  
 _So if you’ve had a bad beginning_  
 _Love will come out winning in the closing scene_

_And when you find it rough contending_  
 _With the grind that the world puts us through_  
 _I can promise you a happy ending_  
 _That has you, loving me, loving you_

_~Robert Preston, Mack & Mabel_

XXX

When Fred woke up the next morning, he was alone in his bed.

At first, he wasn’t too alarmed by Lucy’s disappearance, as this wasn’t an entirely uncommon occurrence. As the actress had long ago stopped skedaddling right off to the washroom as soon as they finished making love each night, she had switched to bathing in the mornings. And whenever she left the door ajar – which was at least half the time – the reporter took it as an invitation, and joined her. So with a smile, he groggily rose from bed and ambled to the washroom.

He was disappointed to find that although the door was ajar, the room was empty. However, there was a towel lying crumpled in a heap on the floor. Fred chuckled indulgently and shook his head as he picked up the towel and hung it on one of the pegs he’d installed to keep the floor from being covered with bath linens. As the towel was still pretty damp, he wasn’t able to pinpoint with much certainty how recently Lucy had made use of his tub. The actress’s habit of scattering bath towels hither and yon was a constant, teasing back-and-forth between them, stemming all the way back to their first few days of sharing a room together. Whereas Fred maintained that it was preferable to conserve laundry where one could, Lucy countered that she was in and out of so many hotels that the potential savings were negligible, and besides, she was far too busy to worry about keeping track of such insignificant details as where her towel landed when she was finished with it! As he’d inhabited the actress’s territory, Fred always ceded the debate to her, and did not press her to change her ways. Now that she had come to stay with him, he supposed he could have insisted that she be a little more conscientious about such things, but it seemed such a petty, insignificant matter that he didn’t want to spoil a perfectly lovely morning arguing over towels – especially when he had a marriage proposal to get going on!

Stepping out of the washroom and rounding the corner of the hallway, Fred discovered that Lucy wasn’t in the kitchen or parlor, either, though this didn’t surprise him; after seeing the empty washroom, he’d surmised from the stillness of the atmosphere that he was alone in his flat. And once again, it was a mess. The sofa cushions were lumpy and misshapen from his having spent the past few nights passed out on them, and his passionate reconciliation with Lucy had only made things worse. Though the kitchen table had been cleared, the actress’s crumb-covered scarf was still spread over the surface. Several food-encrusted dishes still sat on the counters, waiting to be washed, and the floor was littered with all the glass shards he’d insisted on not picking up the evening before.

Fred sighed at the sorry sight of the apartment he’d only just recently cleaned, but in good-natured resignation more than annoyance. If anything, the disarray was his fault – he was the one who’d insisted on continuing their conversation while she was doing the dishes, propped her up on the counter, and whisked her to the sofa. And he wouldn’t have done a single thing differently – as much as he valued neatness in his surroundings, there were other things that were infinitely more precious to him.

By the time the reporter finished sweeping up the glass, scouring the dishes, shaking the crumbs out of Lucy’s scarf, and setting everything to rights in the parlor, it was nearly eleven o’clock, and Lucy still hadn’t come back. It wasn’t like the actress to go out on long constitutionals by herself in the morning – at least, not without waking him up and letting him know where she’d meet him for lunch. Fred’s heart sank as the pesky sense of disquiet that had been lingering in the back of his mind ever since he came upon the empty washroom started to take hold – and then he remembered that it was Wednesday. On Wednesdays, there was a noon matinee of _No, No Nanette_ at the theater, and she had a ten thirty call.

While Fred was fairly certain he’d hit upon the reason for Lucy’s disappearance, he was a bit irked that his plans for a romantic proposal over breakfast were dashed, and couldn’t help grumpily wondering why the actress hadn’t at least woken him up for a goodbye kiss before leaving for her show. But then again, he’d slept so deeply and soundly that she might have attempted to do just that without any success. With another sigh, Fred returned to the washroom to take a bath and get ready for the day, himself. He had a lot of work to do at the office, and he’d better get to it. He didn’t have much time to get things accomplished, as he always met Lucy for an early dinner at Bill’s after her matinee. Today, he would take the ring with him to the restaurant and propose to her there. Somehow, it seemed fitting that he ask her to marry him in the exact same spot of that life-changing first date.

But despite his best-laid plans, the reporter’s feet ended up taking him to the theater instead of the office. This time, he sat in the last row on the aisle. His instincts had taken over, and while his rational mind continued to try to soothe his apprehensions and talk him out of what he was presently doing, he dismissed it as so much chatter; he’d long ago learned to follow the inclinations of his gut, no matter how foolish they might seem at first.

Indeed, when Nanette was due for her big entrance, it wasn’t Lucy van der Hoeven ( _Dixon, should be Lucy Dixon_ , his mind whispered) who walked out onto the stage, but some blonde-haired, wide-eyed understudy who was passable enough but didn’t have a tenth of the charisma of the true leading lady. Not that the audience could tell the difference; as soon as _Waiting for You_ was finished, they applauded enthusiastically. Disgusted by the crowd’s lack of discernment and alarmed that Lucy wasn’t the one performing – her understudy only substituted for her on Tuesday nights and Saturday mornings, so that meant something was definitely awry – Fred stood up and walked out of the theater, something he wouldn’t have been able to do without causing a stir if he’d chosen to sit in his usual seat in the front row.

Wasting no time, the reporter went straight to Lucy’s hotel room and knocked on the door. At first, no one answered – though he did hear some disquieting rustling and low, feminine laughter. Undeterred, he knocked on the door again. He was determined to get to the bottom of what had happened, regardless of how much it was going to hurt later if what he was gradually starting to suspect turned out to be the case. Gritting his teeth and steeling his soul for what he might see, he rapped on the door a third time.

At this provocation, there was a rush of angry stomping, and then a burly man threw open the door. “This had better be good!” he growled, his fists tightening menacingly by his sides.

Although the reporter had surmised what he was in for, actually seeing another man in the flesh was a punch to the gut that stole away his ability to speak. The brute was glaring at him, demanding that he explain his intrusion, and there were more feminine titters in the background. Now that he could hear the cadence of laughter more clearly, he didn’t think (or perhaps was just desperately hoping) that the woman didn’t sound as much like Lucy as he’d initially feared. Lucy’s laugh was low and throaty, and these were vacuous, high-pitched giggles. But the hulking man in front of him was too big to see around, and Fred dared not make any sudden moves.

“Well?” the new tenant and gatekeeper of the reporter’s former love nest barked.

“Is Lucy in?” Fred finally managed to ask.

The man’s eyes widened in sudden understanding (Fred was amazed, as he’d expected a fist to his face for his impertinent inquiry), and he turned to call over his shoulder, “Is one of you a Lucy, by any chance?”

His heart pounding loudly in his ears, Fred took the opportunity to take a peek for himself, now that the man’s imposing frame was no longer filling the entire doorway. But when he spied a blonde and a redhead on the bed, his heart slowed and his legs went so wobbly with relief that he had to grasp the doorframe to steady himself.

“I’m Bonnie!” twittered the blonde.

“And I’m Trixie!” the redhead piped up.

It wasn’t the kindest of reactions, but Fred was so relieved that he couldn’t help bursting into laughter. Bonnie and Trixie – sounded like an act for a three-ring circus! And from their flushed faces and disheveled clothing, it was clear that before he arrived, there had indeed been a three-ring circus of sorts going on.

Fortunately, neither of the women took offense at his mirth, and laughed right along with him. It probably helped that they were eying him ravenously, as if he was a delectable banquet they’d like to devour. Ignoring their avid stares, Fred recovered enough of his manners to ruefully observe, “It seems I have the wrong room.”

The man’s face was all sympathy. “So Lucy ran out on you, did she?” He paused, and looked appraisingly at the reporter – and it was not lost on Fred that the brute was likewise regarding him with a similar hunger. “Well, we’ve got room for one more, if you’d care to join us?”

“Oh, please do come in!” the two of them eagerly chorused.

Immediately stammering his regrets, Fred doffed his hat to the trio and hastily vacated the premises.

Both amused and crestfallen at this unexpected dead end, the reporter headed back to the theater and parked himself right next to the stage door. When the matinee ended and the cast and crew came streaming out, he interrogated as many of them as he could pin down regarding Lucy’s whereabouts. To his disappointment, no one had the slightest inkling as to where she’d gone – or at least, they pretended not to know. It wasn’t until Fred talked to Tom Trainor that he accepted the troupe was just as much in the dark as he was, and that he’d hit yet another dead end in his search; unlike the others, who were so impatient to get where they were going that they responded to his inquiries with curt and even brusque dismissals, Tom had taken pity on him and told him it wasn’t unheard of for an actress to up and leave a production with no forwarding address, and that while he was disappointed to lose a great co-star, he wasn’t surprised, because while Lucy was a decent gal who liked a good laugh, she’d kept her distance from all of them.

“Don’t I know it,” Fred muttered at the actor’s assessment. When Tom offered to keep a lookout for Lucy van der Hoeven in his future travels, the reporter thanked him and gave him his card, though privately he doubted that she’d ever allow her paths to cross with someone who’d be able to reveal her whereabouts to her former lover.

Now that this final avenue had run out, Fred ought to have given up on his search for good, headed to the office, and moved on with his life. But he was too dejected to do anything other than return home. Once again, the early bird had failed to show up in time, and the worm had eluded his grasp. Last night had been his big chance, and he blew it. No matter how exhausted he’d been, he ought to have dragged Lucy from sleep and gotten her to give him a concrete answer to his proposal – even if it would have been a resounding no!

Although Fred was well aware that not every woman anticipated marriage as a vital culmination of being in love – even his new career might not be a desirable-enough enticement for the actress to risk matrimony a second time – Lucy’s sudden absence after their intensely passionate reunion just didn’t add up. The actress had been heartbroken over Simon Sennett’s hasty departures after the conclusion of their trysts, so why did she then proceed to disappear on _him_ without a trace? Had her experience with such a self-centered cad hardened her enough that she no longer had any qualms about abandoning even a man she professed to love without the courtesy of saying goodbye? And if Lucy had always been planning to leave him in the end, even as she cooked him dinner, disclosed the most harrowing loss in her life, and made love to him body, heart and soul, she’d done a tremendous job of concealing her ultimate intentions. The reporter hadn’t suspected a thing.

But maybe it was time for Fred to face up to the fact that Lucy Dixon – if that was indeed her real name – didn’t truly love him, but had only been using him to assuage her loneliness. And loving him probably wasn’t the only thing she’d lied about. Though the scar on her stomach was genuine enough, her tragic life story could very well have been an elaborate tall tale she’d spun to gain his sympathy and trust. After all, she was a hell of an actress. If anyone could pull off such a heart-wrenching con, it would certainly be her.

However, while Fred could not argue against this rational, if cynical, conclusion his mind had drawn, his heart stubbornly refused to believe it. Lucy _did_ truly love him, even if she’d left him in the cruelest possible way. So he was not going to accede to sense until he came upon definitive proof that his sensibilities were mistaken. Scouring his flat for clues, he racked his brain in a desperate attempt to recall if Lucy had brought any luggage with her last night. But to his irritation, his famous attention to detail failed him, and he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that the actress had already been present when he got home late last night, and he was far too focused on her to note such inconsequential particulars. Not that it really mattered, anyway; even if she’d brought her belongings with her last night, she’d taken them all with her when she’d gone. The only thing she’d left behind was the jaunty scarf she’d used as a tablecloth.

But the reporter did find something else – a crumpled piece of a paper lying beneath his desk that apparently hadn’t quite made it into the wastebasket. Picking it up and smoothing it out, Fred was both encouraged and disappointed to discover that the contents were illegible due to being scribbled out (and were those ink blots or tearstains?), though he could make out the lines: _I love you. I’m sorry._

While these phrases didn’t shed any light on the mystery of whether Lucy had always intended to slip away the morning after, they did bring Fred a small but crucial measure of comfort. Though he’d been so close to giving in to the despair his mind urged, he slowly started to trust his heart again. Lucy hadn’t been acting; his instincts were right on the money. And they were now telling him that not only had she been speaking the truth all along, _he_ was the one who’d messed up. Messed up _again_. And this time, he wasn’t going to be given the miraculous opportunity to fix his mistake, as he had the strong hunch that she wasn’t going to be paying him an unexpected visit twice!

Bereft, Fred pocketed the note the actress never meant him to see and headed over to Bill’s. Though he hadn’t eaten anything all day and it was now getting to be late afternoon, he had no appetite and merely picked at his food. Bill wisely refrained from questioning Lucy’s absence… though he did mention that the actress came in all by herself on Monday afternoon, sat in the booth she usually shared with him, and sneaked wistful glances at the door several times, as if she was waiting for someone she didn’t really expect would show up. Clenching his jaw, Fred coolly informed the proprietor that she was gone – just like every single other woman who’d ever walked into his life. At that, Bill shrugged – his way of offering condolences – and remarked that all he knew was that Lucy was the first and only gal that he’d ever seen the reporter bring here.

The proprietor had spoken neither proudly nor self-deprecatingly; he knew his establishment was thoroughly ordinary, and neither gloried nor lamented this fact. But his observation sparked an epiphany in Fred. He hadn’t ever brought a woman to this place before Lucy, and he couldn’t imagine ever doing so after her. Lucy had been different. Not just different – one of a kind. This time, he wasn’t going to let the woman he loved elude his grasp so easily. He was going to find Lucy, and he was going to talk to her. They had unfinished business to discuss.

Standing up and speedily settling his bill, Fred headed right to his office, firmly determined to track Lucy van der Hoeven down. He knew he was going to have to be patient, as Lucy was most likely still on the train to wherever she had decided to go. And when she got there, she’d need to audition for a role. Her name wouldn’t appear on any marquees anywhere for weeks, maybe months… and that’s if it appeared at all, as she might only get a bit part or just ensemble.

Unfortunately, the reporter didn’t have months or even all that many weeks – he had to start traveling for his new column by the end of the month. Though he could still search for the actress on the road, being on the move would slow down his progress considerably. But he could at least get started, and with a bit of ingenuity, he could also plan a column itinerary that aided him in his pursuit. So Fred began exploring the most obvious possibilities, sending out telegrams to theatrical contacts he’d spent the past few months cultivating in the country’s biggest cities – New York, Chicago, Los Angeles. By the time he was finished with this task, it was well into the evening, and exhaustion was gradually overtaking him once more. First thing tomorrow morning, he planned to stop by the train station and ask any of the employees or regulars if they had spotted a petite brunette in their travels, and if so, whether they’d noted which train she’d boarded. While he wasn’t likely to gain any useful information on so slender a lead, he wasn’t about to leave any stone unturned.

After a hasty supper at Bill’s – his appetite had finally caught up to him, along with fatigue – Fred returned to his apartment to attempt to get some much-needed rest. The days ahead were likely to be long, frustrating and fruitless, and he mustn’t make himself ill through neglect of his body’s basic requirements. Not even bothering to undress except for the removal of his shoes, Fred draped Lucy’s scarf over his pillow and lay down on his bed. The actress’s note was still tucked in his pocket, and the second bottle of bourbon from his pantry was cradled in the crook of his elbow as he settled in for what was probably going to be a sleepless night. He only intended to drink just enough to relax – he wanted to keep his head as clear as possible for the long slog ahead – but as the lingering and pervasive aroma of jasmine permeating her scarf wafted beneath his nose, he ended up polishing off the entire bottle before passing out.

XXX

The next day, Fred valiantly ignored his hangover and went to the train station. As he expected, no one had seen or remembered the actress in the hustle and bustle, but it was still disappointing to hit yet another brick wall. He briefly toyed with the idea of getting a little more bourbon – just enough to ease the throbbing in his head – but dismissed it, as he’d only end up drinking himself into another unproductive stupor as the dead ends continued to mount. The only thing that kept him going through the interminable hours ahead was the reminder that his efforts weren’t entirely for naught – even though he wasn’t getting any closer to finding Lucy, he was doing legwork that would come in handy for his new column. As the hours turned into days and the days turned into weeks, Fred piled up enough potential story ideas to keep him busy for the next year. By the time the final week of August rolled around, he was more than ready to embark on his new career.

But the reporter still hadn’t found hide or hair of Lucy van der Hoeven. He had spent every possible moment devouring any and every tidbit of theatrical news he could lay his hands on and reaching out to any and every contact he could think of, from directors to producers all the way down to the janitors who swept the theaters at night. As Fred refused to indulge in any more liquid comfort, he filled his days with work, toiling from early morning to late evening, only returning home when he was too tired to think and could do nothing but collapse into bed. Lucy’s scarf remained draped over his pillow, and it both soothed and pained him to breathe in her scent as he drifted off to sleep.

But the jasmine aroma was fading more every day, and though the reporter wasn’t superstitious enough to believe in such nonsense, this seemed too much like a bad omen for comfort. After weeks of sleuthing, he wasn’t so much as an iota closer to discovering the actress’s whereabouts, and this troubling lack of progress was starting to grate on his nerves. Apparently, Lucy van der Hoeven had disappeared completely off the map! Fred’s mind, always eager to entertain the worst possible outcome, started to ponder more sinister reasons for her disappearance. She was a woman all alone in the world – any number of tragedies could have befallen her. Illness? Suicide? Foul play? For all he knew, she could have been lying dead in a ditch somewhere, unknown and unmourned, a sad but fleeting curiosity to the constable who was unlucky enough to come upon her corpse and have to deal with its disposal…

 _Enough_ , his heart firmly remonstrated. He had toiled too long and hard to give up hope now. Even if he didn’t locate Lucy van der Hoeven before he had to leave town, he’d continue looking until he did find her. With a grim sense of amusement, Fred fancied himself the modern version of the eternally wandering Flying Dutchman – and if that was the way it had to be, so be it.

Perhaps his dogged refusal to give in to despair impressed Providence, or whatever spirit looked after the hapless lovelorn, because Fred had a stroke of luck at last. The day before he was due to catch a train to New York City – he had decided to start in the east and work his way methodically westward – Fred was opening his mail at the office when he came upon a notice about a new drama opening in Cincinnati on September fifth. It was intriguingly titled _The Dark at the Top of the Stairs_ – and featured Lucy Dixon as Cora Flood.

At first, Fred could only gape at the paper in his hand. Lucy _Dixon_. He had just been talking to some folks in Cincinnati merely a week ago – and had only inquired about Lucy van der Hoeven. It had never occurred to him to ask anyone if they’d seen Lucy Dixon. But given that he had received this notice, it might just have occurred to one of them. The reporter laughed in sheer glee, even as he castigated himself for his utter stupidity. He ought to have been clever enough to surmise that she’d seen enough merit in his advice to actually take it, even if she’d disappeared on him!

Somehow it seemed fitting that Lucy Dixon had ended up in Cincinnati, where Fred had already experienced one life-changing event as a boy – hearing Eli Paroo play his trumpet in the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra. Because whichever way their conversation went, the reporter’s life _was_ going to change, though whether for good or ill was yet to be determined. Deciding to take Lucy’s new stage name as a good omen, Fred wound up his remaining paperwork at the office and returned early to his flat to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow morning, come hell or high water, he was going to be on the first train heading to Cincinnati.

XXX

After nearly a month of arduous searching, Fred had anticipated that traveling to where Lucy had landed would be a pleasure. And as the train pulled out of the Des Moines at seven o’clock sharp, he was still basking in the elation of his miraculous eleventh-hour discovery of the actress’s whereabouts. But once the train left the city limits behind and moved through the vast and seemingly interminable Iowa cornfields, a dispiriting sense of tedium set in. The reporter had a full day’s wait ahead of him before he could expect to disembark in Cincinnati; if the trip was smooth and the train wasn’t hampered by any unforeseen delays, he might be lucky enough to get to the city by one in the morning. But in all likelihood, the train wouldn’t arrive until seven a.m. Besides the occasional flash of a farmhouse and the even rarer glimpse of an actual town, there was no other scenery to gaze at outside of the well-tended but monotonous fields – the corn was nearly ripe enough for harvesting and the grasses were brown from the late-summer heat. But the sun beat down so mercilessly from the cloudless sky that Fred eventually had to turn away from the window.

For the first time in weeks, he had nothing compelling with which to occupy himself other than his own thoughts. As a veteran of riding the rails, the reporter was not only used to these long stretches of solitude, he downright welcomed them, as they provided the respite he needed from the bustle and busyness in order to sort through his observations, contemplate his story angles, and formulate his articles. He’d done some of his best writing on the train rides coming back from assignments. But right now, the last thing he wanted to be was alone. Ever since Lucy had left him, Fred had successfully kept his melancholy ruminations at bay by crowding them out with work, and now that he had nothing to do but think, every single apprehension and misgiving he was subconsciously harboring about what he was doing pounced.

That slender shred of idealism left in his soul was shooting for the moon, but what could he realistically expect to accomplish by charging after the woman who’d left him and demanding an answer why? It was a fool’s errand the reporter was pursuing, as he wasn’t only risking his heart, he was also putting his job in jeopardy. His boss had been rather underwhelmed by his selection of Cincinnati for his first column – why not Chicago or New York? – but Fred had convinced him that Cincinnati was the best place to start, as it was where his interest in music had been sparked when he first heard the late, great Eli Paroo play his trumpet. Fortunately, Mr. Bowles had bought into this nostalgia hook and gave him his blessing, albeit reluctantly. The reporter knew he was going to have to churn out something marvelous, and he had less than a week in which to accomplish this – the deadline for his first article was Monday, September eighth, as his new column was slated to run on Tuesdays.

In order to maximize his chances for success, Fred was going to have to start pounding the pavement for stories the moment he stepped off the train, and he was planning to do just that. But at the same time, he needed to keep a low profile until Lucy’s play opened on Friday night, lest she get wind of his presence in town and disappear again. While such an outcome would tell him exactly what he needed to know, it would be the most unsatisfying possible resolution to their relationship, and he was hoping he would at least get the opportunity to talk to the actress before she issued her final rejection of his overtures. The reporter supposed he could have cut to the chase and simply showed up at the theater during a rehearsal, but he wanted to see her play, not only because it might potentially provide material for his column, but also because he relished watching Lucy Dixon at her craft, and it would be nice to have at least one pleasant memory of seeing her in Cincinnati.

So Fred had yet another excruciating wait ahead of him. After the sun slowly finished making its way from one side of the horizon to the other and finally set, the throbbing of his head still did not ease; his contemplations continued tumbling over and over on themselves in his mind, stuck in an endless cycle of glum repetition that would not cease until his unfinished business with the woman he loved was concluded one way or the other. Attempting to sleep in this state of mind was impossible, so the reporter simply stared out at the pitch-black landscape and drummed his fingers tunelessly on the arm of his seat as the train sped through the darkness. Only one thing kept Fred from sinking into complete despondency and just continuing right on past Cincinnati all the way to New York City – the unshakeable and steadfast conviction that no matter how infinitesimal his odds were, the chance to live happily ever after with Lucy Dixon was well worth taking such a great gamble.

There was one benefit to spending a full day addled by boredom and discontent; by the time the train pulled into the Cincinnati station around five o’clock on Tuesday morning, the reporter was so exhausted that he went straight to a hotel and collapsed on top of the still-made bed. By the time Fred woke up again, it was nearly dark, and he was ravenous. Without bothering to change his clothes or even shave – though he splashed some water on his face and ran a comb through his hair so he wouldn’t look too unkempt – Fred ventured out to locate the nearest eatery. Requesting a table in the corner that faced the door, he downed a hearty meal and then returned right to his room. Although fatigue was once again setting in, the reporter managed to change into his nightclothes, brush his teeth and turn down the bedcovers before slumber claimed him a second time.

When Fred woke up again, it was nine thirty on Wednesday morning. He still had three more days to fill before _The Dark at the Top of the Stairs_ opened, but his head was clear and he felt miles better after his lengthy rest. The pessimism that had plagued him on the train ride had also largely dissipated, and the reporter once again felt that wonderful sense of excitement and possibility tingling in his bones. Anything could happen. After indulging in a long, cool bath and a thorough shave, Fred dressed himself in a new but unremarkable seersucker suit and straw boater he had bought just last week, and set out to explore Cincinnati.

XXX

Fortunately, now that the reporter was actually at his destination and no longer confined to the narrow car of a train, the rest of the week passed quickly and easily enough. Almost before he knew it, Friday evening had rolled around and he was heading to the theater.

Once again, Fred chose to sit in the very last row, as he was still a bit skittish about revealing his presence too soon. After the performance concluded, he intended to find his way backstage to Lucy’s dressing room, and while he was prepared to respect her wishes if she ordered him to leave right away, he didn’t want to give her the impetus to flee beforehand. However, it was a much smaller theater than the one in Des Moines, and if the actress scanned the audience at any point during the show, he would not be able to escape her eagle-eyed gaze.

But when the curtain rose and the show began, Fred became so engrossed in the play that he forgot to be self-conscious Lucy might see him. In this drama about a troubled but loving family trying to navigate life’s difficulties in Oklahoma, the actress starred as Cora Flood, a housewife who at first appeared to be a prim, frigid and status-obsessed matron, but in truth possessed a warm heart and a great deal of passion beneath the carefully-polished exterior she strove to present to both her husband and the world. It was a complex role that seemed simple enough on the surface but demanded great subtlety and delicacy in its execution, and as ever, Lucy Dixon’s interpretation was right on the mark. Cora Flood was a much different woman than the high-spirited and frivolous Nanette, but Lucy’s performance was no less riveting and poignant; once again, the actress inhabited her character so fully and believably that her portrayal seemed an effortless expression of her natural personality. While Fred keenly identified with the frustration of Cora’s equally-passionate husband, Rubin, a traveling salesman who fumed at his wife’s aloofness and refusals as he struggled to find steady employment after the company he worked for went belly-up, the wistful yearning lurking beneath Cora’s façade made her just as sympathetic a figure, and when the couple finally resolved the issues causing their estrangement and gloried in a long-awaited reunion, the reporter heartily joined in the burst of applause that erupted when Rubin and Cora ardently embraced at the end.

Once the play concluded, the audience gave the actors a standing ovation, and Fred took advantage of the ado to slip backstage, where he lingered in the shadows until the company finished their curtain call. He supposed he could have waited for the actress in her dressing room, but it felt a little _too_ forward an advance – especially when he wasn’t at all certain how she would receive his visit. As the cast and crew chattered excitedly and congratulated each other on a job well done, the reporter was unsurprised to see Lucy courteously but briskly moving through the crowd, until she achieved the refuge of her dressing room and closed the door on them all. Apparently, the troupe was also accustomed to their leading lady’s standoffishness, as no one batted an eye at her rather unsociable behavior.

Yet Fred could not smile at Lucy’s efficiency, because in the brief glimpse he received as she passed by, her demeanor had struck him as terse even by her standards, and there was something new in her gaze that he had never seen before, something dull and listless that indicated life had lost all its zest. He was too distressed to be encouraged, though hope stirred in his heart at this sign she just might have been missing him as much as he had been missing her.

Indeed, when the reporter finally sneaked over to Lucy’s door and slipped inside before anyone started to question his presence backstage, he saw that now that the actress was alone and had no further need to maintain a polite façade, she was slumped in her vanity chair and stared glumly into the mirror. In addition, now that she had stripped down to her undergarments, Fred’s concern increased when he realized she was even thinner than when he last saw her. But somehow, he managed to keep his voice pleasant and level as he greeted her:

“Good evening, Miss Dixon.”

Lucy immediately leaped up from her seat, and that missing spark lit up her gaze as she whirled around to face him. “Fred!”

Stunned by the sheer elation in her voice and expression, Fred could only goggle at her. For days, he’d been steeling himself for a cold or angry dismissal, and he couldn’t fathom this warm response. But not only was she grinning at him, she looked like she was about to run into his arms.

However, before the reporter could recover his wits enough to demonstrate just how much he’d welcome such an effusive greeting, her excitement ebbed into disappointment and she looked down at her hands as they nervously tugged the fabric of her dressing gown tighter around her. “So, how did you enjoy the play?” she asked politely, as if he were merely a distant acquaintance who had dropped by to offer his congratulations.

It was a good thing the actress was no longer looking at him, as Fred couldn’t help scowling – not at her sudden reserve, but his own idiocy. Once again, he’d waited just a mite too long and botched his chance! Not that he was anywhere near ready to give up, but thanks to his infuriating slowness on the uptake, he had just made the road a lot rockier for himself.

So to start, Fred decided it was wisest to enter the conversation on her terms. “It was wonderful,” he said earnestly. “Much more engaging than _No, No Nanette_!”

He was gratified to see her brighten a bit at the warmth of his tone, but her demeanor remained guarded and her smile was wan as she replied, “Yes… though I suspect it won’t be a major hit with the public in the long term, despite tonight’s success. The dialog is far too passionate and indelicate for people’s sensibilities.”

“The story is too honest,” Fred agreed. “ _The Dark at the Top of the Stairs_ will most likely fade into obscurity.”

Having quickly come to an agreement on the matter, neither of them had anything more to say, and another awkward silence fell between them again. _Enough making empty small talk_ , the reporter chided himself. _Start saying what you came here to say!_

Fred’s hand closed around the ring in his pocket, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak – an unsettling swirl of emotions threatened to engulf him as soon as he opened his mouth, and from Lucy’s countenance, which was steadily growing more pained as the moments ticked by, she appeared to be experiencing a similar predicament.

But the reporter didn’t come all this way to turn back now. So he decided to go right to the crux of the matter, even though his eyes were now stinging and a lump was forming in his throat. “Why did you leave me, Lucy?” he finally managed to choke out, sounding as far from casual and sanguine as it was possible for a man to get.

At that, a sob burst from Lucy. Clasping both of her hands over her mouth, she immediately turned away from him. But he could see in the mirror that tears were streaming down her cheeks, even though she remained still and silent.

Fred swallowed. “Please, just tell me.”

The actress took a few deep breaths and wiped her eyes, but she did not turn back to look at him as she whispered, “I left because I knew you were going to ask me to marry you the next morning. I heard what you whispered as we were falling asleep, about ‘Lucy Gallup’ having a wonderful ring to it – ” She broke off as another sob escaped, but she contained her roiling emotions with a determined gulp and continued, “I left because I wouldn’t have been strong enough to say _no_.”

Fred’s heart, which had been falling fast as she spoke, immediately leaped up again. He regarded her with a bewildered smile. “Explain that, please.”

Lucy spun around to face him head on, looking thoroughly exasperated. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve forgotten how the world works? You’re a reporter. I’m an actress. We see the dregs of humanity on a daily basis! Even leaving that aside, at our age we both ought to know better than to believe in silly fairytales that end happily ever after.” She sighed. “My respectable marriage ended catastrophically and my grand affair collapsed, and I just don’t have it in me to survive a _third_ unhappy ending. What we had was wonderful, but was it really strong enough to survive till death do us part? The last night we had together was the best night of my life, and there was nowhere left to go from there but down – I wanted my final memories to be of us loving each other, not fighting as our relationship crumbled into discord.” Fred was about to protest, but her shoulders slumped, and she glumly observed almost exactly what he was thinking, “It’s terribly ironic, isn’t it, how we both make our living selling stories that end happily ever after, when in real life people like us can’t ever seem to afford that kind of luxury.”

The reporter could have pointed out that by leaving him after she’d gotten in so deep, she had merely sealed the unhappy ending her heart was already risking – a fate that wasn’t necessarily written in stone. Happy endings for people like them may have been improbable but they were not impossible, and while the margin of difference between the two might have only been a hairsbreadth, it made all the difference. But the last thing the reporter wanted to do was get caught up in an argument over semantics. So he acceded to her line of reasoning, pessimistic as it was. “If that’s the case, then you shouldn’t have come to my apartment after our fight,” he said sadly. “You should have just left well enough alone, and allowed us both to get on with our lives. Instead, you came to me and told me all about what had happened to give you that scar.” His voice cracked. “Why?”

Lucy’s face crumpled. “I know it would have been a lot kinder to just leave you alone,” she said brokenly. “But I just couldn’t. As difficult as it was to talk about all that, I wanted you to know, because I knew you’d understand. It was very selfish of me, but I – I just couldn’t take being _alone_ anymore.” She sniffed, and then surprised the reporter by locking eyes with him. “I honestly hadn’t been planning to leave right the next morning. When I came to your flat that night, I meant to stay with you right up until _No, No Nanette_ closed in Des Moines.” She sniffed again, and brushed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I was hoping that once I got that final bit of baggage unpacked, so to speak, we could have enjoyed one more gloriously happy month together before I had to leave town for good.”

At her confession, a flood of relief ran through Fred. So she hadn’t been planning to disappear on him right away, after all! But as ever when it came to the actress, his feelings were jumbled and complicated, as he also felt a contradictory sense of dismay. He was already well aware of just how deep Lucy’s cynicism ran, but it still rankled him to hear this ringing confirmation that she had indeed been so beaten down by life that she never considered _thinking_ about a future with him, even during their happiest moments together.

The actress regarded him with a rueful expression, as if she understood everything that was going through his mind. “If it makes you feel any better, I wanted so badly to say yes to the proposal I knew would come from you the next morning.” She sighed and looked down at her hands, which once again tugged her robe tighter around her narrow frame. “A week before my father died, he asked if I was sure that being an actress was what I truly wanted to do. He said if I went into show business, it would be an exciting but lonely life. Did I want to be a tumbleweed that blows aimlessly in the wind and is eventually pulled apart, or a stationary rose that’s well-tended in a pot of rich soil? It planted just enough of a seed of doubt in me that when William Josiah Wright proposed to me, I said yes.”

Lucy sighed again, this time angrily. “Well, I tried being the rose, and you know how that turned out. Even if I’d had a better pot to grow in, my spirit still would have withered. I’ve been the tumbleweed ever since then, and even if it does get lonely, I prefer it.” Her eyes met Fred’s once more, and his racing heart, which still didn’t know whether to hope or despair, nearly broke at the sheer anguish in her gaze. “Leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I remember how heartbroken I was the first morning you sneaked out to buy me breakfast – I thought you’d finally tired of me and left for good. And now I’d gone and hurt _you_ the same awful way.” She hung her head. “But I _can’t_ be the rose, no matter how wonderful the soil is.”

Still unsure of his probability for success, but unwilling to give up now that he knew beyond all doubt that the woman he loved so fiercely and desperately felt the same way about him, Fred smiled reassuringly at the actress. “I know that, Lucy. I’ve always known that about you, even before you told me your life story. That’s why I got a job as a traveling correspondent. So I could be with you wherever your career takes you.”

It wasn’t often that the reporter managed to knock Lucy so thoroughly off balance, and he couldn’t help grinning as she goggled at him. “You got a new job?” she stammered. “How? Why?”

Fred laughed. “I pitched a traveling column on the arts in America to my boss the day you came to my flat. I was going to tell you all about it the next morning just before I proposed – I’ve always wanted to travel and see other places besides backwater Iowa. And this new column will be the perfect way for me to keep tabs on the music world, since I was never able to make a career of it. Fortunately, my boss liked the idea enough to give me a trial period.”

Ever the cynic, the actress observed, though in a voice of muted awe, “And if the new column doesn’t work out?”

“Then I’ll look for a job that does work out,” the reporter averred. “There’s always the Associated Press, or Chicago, or even New York.” He reached out and took her hands. “It’ll take some doing, but with careful planning, I think we can manage to be in the same region of the country most of the time.”

Her hands trembled in his, but she did not pull away. “You would rearrange your career and uproot your entire life… for _me_?”

He nodded. “We can be tumbleweeds together.”

Lucy’s countenance remained absolutely stunned. “But why?”

Fred beamed at her. “Because you’re one in a million, Lucy. I love you, I can’t live without you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make a life with you.”

By the time the reporter was finished saying all that, his smile was gone, his heart was beating crazily in his chest, and his face was burning. Lucy was still gaping at him in disbelief, and he had laid out all his cards on the table. At this point, all he could do was wait to see whether his hand was a winning one. But then his instincts whispered that maybe there was still something else he could say to tip the balance even further in his favor.

He caressed her hand. “You’ve already heard this story, but I’ll tell it again. Once upon a time, there was a conman who tried to fleece the good but naïve citizens of a small town in Iowa by selling them an outrageous, pie-in-the-sky curriculum for reading music that he called the Think System. But then he fell head over heels in love with the town’s beautiful but spinster librarian, and with her help and faith in him, he was able to make the Think System work. Not just work, but thrive! So now the conman is a true bandleader and a devoted family man, who is soon to become a father. If a conman and a librarian can find a way to live happily ever after, why can’t a reporter and an actress take that chance, too?”

Lucy pulled her hands out of his and covered her face. “Because the actress doesn’t deserve the reporter.”

But Fred wasn’t about to let her go that easily – especially as he sensed just how desperately she wanted to be persuaded out of her pessimism. “You’ve loved me far better than I deserved, after everything I put Bess through.” He pulled his grandmother’s ring from his pocket. “I can’t promise you that our life together will be as perfect as a fairytale, but as long as we’re both willing to try, I believe we have as decent a shot at happiness as anyone else in this crazy world.” He gently took her left hand in his and asked in a quiet voice. “Would you do me the honor of giving me your hand in marriage?”

Fred winced – he had rehearsed these words in his head so many times, but they sounded so stilted and melodramatic when he actually said them out loud! Though he could at least take comfort in the fact that he _knew_ Lucy, and she knew him, so even if her lips did twitch in amusement, she would discern the tender and earnest feelings behind the awkward words.

But Lucy’s mouth didn’t twitch as she pointed out, “I can’t cook, I’m terribly messy, and I’m hopeless at any kind of mending, even darning socks.” Her voice, already low, dwindled to a whisper. “I can’t give you any children.”

“If I wanted a woman to cook and clean and sew for me, I’d hire a housekeeper and save myself the trouble,” he earnestly assured her. “And I don’t want children.”

Though she still didn’t look at him, a note of hope entered her voice for the first time. “You don’t?”

Fred was about to remark that he thought he’d made his preferences regarding children crystal clear that first night they were together, but then he reflected that while a man was not likely to want to have any children with a paramour, he would certainly want to do so with a wife. Gritting his teeth at this oversight, he brought the actress’s hand to his lips, hoping this blandishment would soften the blow of any clumsy phrasing as he explained his position on the matter:

“Well… if we ever found ourselves expecting, I would take any bundle of joy that came along. Not just take, but _love_. But to be perfectly honest, children aren’t something I ever really wanted. As sorry as I am for what happened to you, and as much as I wish it had never happened, I can’t help being relieved that I’ll never have to worry about the woman I love potentially losing her health or even her life.” He shrugged. “Besides, any kid deserves a far better father than me!”

Lucy’s free hand came up to cover his. “You’d have made a wonderful father,” she said, quietly but with conviction. “If there was ever a man I’d want to have children for, it’s _you_.”

Fred tugged her nearer to him, until their bodies were touching. But he didn’t put his arms around her just yet. “All I’ve ever wanted was a wife who’d be a dear companion to me, sharing not just my bed but my whole life. In return, I’d be her devoted friend and lover, forsaking all others but her. And that’s not the only promise I’d make. I’d promise to tell her everything right away, instead of waiting until later – when it might be too late.” A lump came into his throat as his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. “All I ask in return is that unless I break either of those two promises, you won’t run away from me again… ”

Lucy caught him in a fierce hug. “I won’t,” she assured him. “I made that decision all the way back when I mailed you that notice about the play.”

The reporter reared back to gape at her. “ _You_ sent that notice to me?”

The actress nodded sheepishly. “I was too cowardly to go back to Des Moines, but too selfish to let you go.” She paused and bit her lip. “And just so you know… I haven’t been with any other man since I left Des Moines. After I left Simon, I threw myself into casual affairs.” Her left hand found his right one, which was still clutching the ring. “But after leaving you, even just the idea of being with someone else made me recoil.”

“The thought of going to bed with another woman never crossed my mind once while we were apart,” Fred said in a rush of joy as he slipped the ring on her waiting finger. He moved in to kiss his fiancée, but then halted, as he figured that as long as they were confessing, he ought to set her mind at ease by informing her, “This ring was my grandmother’s, but Bess never wore it – my grandmother was still alive back when we were engaged. Of course, I was too poor in those days to buy Bess any kind of ring, and by the time I did have the money, things had gone too sour between us, so I kept putting the purchase off – ”

The actress grinned and placed her beringed finger on the reporter’s jabbering lips. “Fred,” she said affectionately, “ _shut up_.”

Fred didn’t need to be told twice. Pulling Lucy close, his mouth eagerly sought hers for a long-awaited and passionate reunion.

XXX

After a delightful interlude that didn’t quite lead to full-fledged lovemaking but disheveled their clothing to a rather scandalous degree, the reporter and the actress could no longer ignore the rumbling of their stomachs. Parting at last, they hastily made themselves as presentable as they could – fortunately it was very late and they were the only ones left in the theater – and then Lucy took him to Cincinnati’s version of Bill’s, called Charlie’s. This coincidence did not escape Fred’s notice, but he merely squeezed Lucy’s hand when she mentioned the name of the establishment – and was gratified to see that she smiled at his oblique way of acknowledging the happenstance without drawing too much attention to it.

As the actress led him to her usual table in the back corner, she peppered him with questions about his new column. The reporter was delighted to elaborate on what he’d unearthed in his explorations of Cincinnati’s rich music scene during the past few days, as well as get her opinions on a few of the stories he was presently developing and advice as to what other areas he ought to investigate while he was in town. The fiancés also wasted no time in laying out a concrete plan for the immediate future: Lucy’s play was scheduled to run until the end of September, and though Cincinnati was probably only going to give him enough fodder for three or perhaps even four columns, Fred was confident he could eke out enough material to justify remaining by the actress’s side until her show closed. After her final curtain, they’d elope to Niagara Falls, where they planned to stay for least two weeks, or even a month if they could afford it.

“I think _you_ should pick our next destination after our honeymoon,” Lucy said magnanimously as she drummed her fingers on the table. “Your boss probably has some ideas of his own about what your new column should cover, and I’m guessing Cincinnati wasn’t the first place on his list!”

Touched by her consideration, Fred caught her fidgeting hand in his and kissed the finger where his ring now rested. “Several potential leads have been rolling in from all corners, but I haven’t firmed up a definite travel itinerary yet,” he said noncommittally, before admitting, “I was thinking Chicago might be a good place to go next. There would be a lot for me to write about and a lot of acting opportunities for you. Or if you prefer, we could begin in New York and gradually work our way westward.” His lips continued to plant soft kisses on her fingers as he explained, “It could take me at least a month to cover such a big city, if not longer, but I’d only be able to hold out for a week or even just a few days in a small town in the middle of nowhere. I don’t want to have to travel too far away from you, especially at the beginning of our marriage.”

A gleam entered Lucy’s gaze and Fred waited for her to make an arch remark about husbands growing eager to escape on business trips once the honeymoon ended, but instead, she pulled his hand to her lips and kissed it just as affectionately. “I don’t always have to find a show wherever we go, Fred. I could travel to those small towns with you in between jobs… ” She trailed off and lowered her eyes. “That is, of course, if you want me along for the journey… ”

The reporter placed his free hand under her chin and gently tilted her head upward until his eyes were steadily looking into her glistening emerald ones. “For the rest of my life, I’m planning to spend as many days and nights as I can possibly steal with you.”

Having reached the point where even the sweetest words were no longer enough for either of them, the fiancés wasted no time in settling their bill and heading back to the actress’s hotel room. As soon as they’d slammed the door shut behind him, they undressed each other with their usual immoderate haste – at least, until the scarf that Fred had forgotten all about came tumbling out of his suit-coat and drifted to the floor.

“I’ve been carrying it ever since you left it behind in my flat,” he confessed with a sheepish grin at her flattered but questioning gaze.

With a similarly abashed smile, Lucy reached under her pillow and pulled out crumpled a piece of fabric that turned out to be one of his undershirts. “I saw this lying on the floor of your bedroom as I was gathering my clothes together… and I couldn’t resist taking it with me.”

Although Fred didn’t hesitate to demonstrate his thorough appreciation of her romantic gesture with a kiss that was long, tender and deep, the last thing he wanted to do was spoil a perfectly concupiscent mood with _too_ much sentimentality. So after they’d finally parted for air, he plucked the undershirt from her fingers and draped it over the nearby chair where he’d laid her scarf. “We no longer have any need of these,” he said happily.

But to his surprise, Lucy’s smile grew even more bashful. “Well… I might want to hold on to that shirt whenever you’re traveling.”

At first, Fred was too arrested by that achingly vulnerable look she was giving him to say anything; it was the exact same expression that had captivated him their first night together. Only this time, her countenance bespoke deep trust and fondness stemming from the innate confidence of being well-loved, rather than the brittle but desperate yearning of a woman starved for affection. “You’re welcome to anything I have,” he earnestly assured her, finding his voice at last. “Anything and everything.”

The actress lay down on the bed and pulled him on top of her. “I want _you_ , Fred – just you.”

The reporter immediately obliged, giving himself to Lucy body and soul as she gave herself to him just as fiercely and unreservedly in return. As they made love, Fred laced his fingers through hers so he could feel the ring she was wearing – _his_ ring. As far as he was concerned, this was their wedding night. The ceremony, when it happened, would be a formality – but an important one, as it would allow him to publicly demonstrate to his beloved and the world that he meant to keep the promises he’d made to her. In the meantime, he took great pleasure not just in whispering all the sweet, heated and passionate endearments that came into his head, but also in the way Lucy warmly and enthusiastically reciprocated in telling him how much she loved him, not just in caresses, but words as well.

As often happened when they were lying blissfully sated in each other’s arms after a night of lovemaking, Lucy was the first to succumb to exhaustion – but not until the sun had peeked up over the horizon. After idly admiring the beauty of the rosy, dawn-lit sky of the cityscape for a few moments, Fred buried his face in the actress’s dark curls and inhaled their jasmine scent as he also began to drift off. While there might be a few nights in the future when he’d have only her scarf to hold in his arms, he was supremely content in the knowledge that wherever he and Lucy ultimately ended up – Cincinnati, Niagara Falls, Chicago, New York, or maybe even Des Moines – they were already home.


End file.
